


Blue Skies From Rain - Chapters 9 through 17

by lovesrain44



Series: Blue Skies From Rain [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Happy Ending, Incest, Laundry, M/M, Mental Institutions, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, oatmeal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:52:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrain44/pseuds/lovesrain44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after Sam rescues Dean from the djinn, Sam and Dean go back to the warehouse to take care of the bodies of both the victims and of the djinn. But instead of what should be a simple clean-up job, Sam and Dean are sucked into a nightmare world brought about by the djinn's last dying act of revenge. (Takes place directly after <em>What Is and What Should Never Be</em>.) What do you do when you wake up in a mental institution and you think your brother is dead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Skies From Rain - Chapters 9 through 17

**Chapter 9**

By mid-morning, Dean's head was buzzing. He figured it was from the on again off again level of the meds in his system, so he tried to shake it off. He drank extra amounts of water, in spite of Neland's scowl from the far side of the laundry room. The noise of the dyers was almost deafening, and the floor seemed to shake every time he moved an inch.

Everyone else in the room had been giving Sam a wide berth as they usually did, and he'd heard someone actually mutter something about a guy in a dryer. But beside him Sam was humming as he folded, pink-cheeked in the warmth of the room, looking at Dean every so often to make sure he was there, entirely harmless, industrious, and as content as a cat. Dean remembered feeling that way, the cozy line of washers and dryers, and the steady hum that helped him feel centered. Now it was just making him crazy. But if it would help Sam, then, that was it. He grit his teeth and kept on folding.

Sam wanted water, too. He looked at Dean as they were folding towels, and he wanted water. It was his third time that morning asking for water, and Neland was getting irritated. It wasn't that he wouldn't give Sam water, but if Sam kept asking then someone else would want to know why Sam was so thirsty. Sam might slip about the meds, and then when they asked where he'd gotten the idea--Dean jerked his chin up at Sam, to tell him to hold on till Neland was on the other side of the room, beyond the row of dryers. Sam looked at him like he was speaking French.

"Just wait," said Dean, low.

Sam couldn't or wouldn't wait. He placed his towel on the edge of the table, and as Dean watched it slip to the floor, Sam walked to the sink. Neland was quick on his heels, and Dean rushed over to stand next to Sam. Now there were two orderlies, Neland and his assistant, who never seemed to have a nametag.

"You want more water, Sam?" asked Neland. His voice was level but he was scowling.

Sam didn't even wait for a cup, he just bent down to hold the water in the curve of his palm.

"Man, this guy is really OCD," said the assistant. "They still have a lobotomy for that, you know."

"Knock it off," said Neland. "Finish up, Sam, we're on a schedule; the hotel in Peoria wants these towels like yesterday."

"It's not like we get paid," said Dean, putting himself in Neland's path to distract him.

"That's enough out of you, Dean Doe." Neland actually snapped at him, and Dean hung back, tugging on the sleeve of Sam's cotton shirt. The heat from the dryers, normally comforting, seemed overwhelming. He wondered if the assistant was kidding about the lobotomy, but maybe not. If there was a wrench in the works, that would be it. He had to get them out of there before it came to that.

With hard hands, Neland led them back to their table where yet another tumbled pile of towels waited to be folded. It wasn't soothing anymore and it wasn't calm. The racket of the washers going full bore made the back of his brain bang against his skull. But he kept folding, hands getting rough from the residue of detergent. Next to him, Sam's shoulders hung low.

"I just wanted some water," he said, eyes flicking to Dean.

"I know," said Dean.

The chime for lunch sounded, and with a sigh, he put the last towel on the table, and tugged at Sam. "Food."

*

All the men lined up in front of the door, but as they all filed out, one of the orderlies stopped them. It was Edgerton, the morning orderly who came by with their razors and took them away again when they were finished. He pointed at Sam and Dean, while someone pushed them from behind to get them out of the way.

Edgerton looked at them, silent while the line filed past them. "You guys really can't be sleeping together," he said.

Dean's gut twisted a bit, as naturally, anyone who had seen them getting up from the same bed in the morning would get the wrong idea. And, equally as naturally, the hospital would have rules, and rules were what Sammy lived by. Before Dean could say anything to keep Edgerton from scolding them, Sam was nodding. "Dean was keeping me warm," he said.

"It doesn't matter. You guys need to knock it off or I'm going to have to turn you in."

"But--" said Sam, in whose mind the whole thing was good and comforting.

Edgerton just jerked his head to make them get back in line.

By the time they got to the dining hall, Dean's head was pounding, and it was all he could do, when presented with his cup of pills, not to take all of them. They'd helped with headaches before, but he couldn't do it. He had to get clear, now, just in case anything went wrong and he went into convulsions or something.

He stuck two of pills outside of his teeth, and swallowed one with a good, healthy swig of water. The pill lady was satisfied. As she was with Sam, though Dean, who was watching, saw Sam tuck one of the pills in his hand. He had such large hands that the pill all but vanished. As they got in line, Dean pointed to the trash can, and Sam waved his hand over the top as casually as if he was throwing a gum wrapper away. As a reward, Dean leaned forward, and tapped his forehead against Sam's shoulder, not taking it away until he had to grab a tray.

"Which ones did you take?" he asked.

Sam tried to look at Dean at the same time he was talking to the lunch lady. "I don't know. I swallowed two. The one I bit in half tasted terrible, and the other one, wouldn't break in half, so I threw it all away."

Dean didn't let himself worry about how much was exactly half. That there were so many pills was its own kind of madness, almost as crazymaking as the dull food. At least there was food; naturally, in a place like this one, the lunch ladies did their best on a budget. It was almost like being buried alive in concern, except that they were trapped there.

They got their food and sat at one of the round tables. Dean hoped that if anyone sat with them, they would know how to chew with their mouths closed. He was getting sick of watching half-chewed cream corn go sliding down some guy's chin. When he'd been more on the meds, he'd not cared as much. Now it was just gross.

Instead he watched Sam eat, feeling like a mother hen hovering over a fussy eater. Sam still looked pale and uninterested in the food, which today was some kind of soup with dark bits floating in it, a roll, a pile of carrot rounds, and the carton of milk. Dean thought there should be cake or an iced brownie or something, he remembered that from going to school. Even the worst cafeteria food could be brightened by desert. He promised himself that the second he got them out of there, they were having something that Sam liked, like Ding Dongs or raspberry turnovers or whatever Sam wanted.

"Hey, Sam," he said, reaching out to touch Sam's elbow. "It's going to be okay."

Sam's mouth worked, his head dipped low between his shoulders as he tried to muster interest in the soup, the spoon in his hand tracing tired little circles in the bowl. "But I _like_ sleeping with you."

It sounded like his heart was about to break at the thought of it, which was nice in a way, but it worried Dean too. If Sam sunk too low, what if that set off another fit? He couldn't let that happen, there was no need for it to happen.

"You just play it cool, and we can always sleep together, okay?" It should have felt more weird, coming out like that, and it would have anyplace else. But it was what Sam needed, so it was okay. At least here. At some point in their past, Dad had started to frown at Sam slipping into Dean's bed even if the night had gotten particularly dark and scary for Sam. _That boy needs to buck up_ , Dad had said, but some nights, especially when Dad was away, Dean didn't have the heart. And Sam tucked in to his side, heat banking off him like a camp stove, didn't hurt either. "Just don't be talking about vampires or zombies anymore. And especially not the wendigos, 'cause to anyone else that just sounds nuts."

"I can't believe you believe me," Sam said, lifting his head a little.

"Well, I do" said Dean, wondering how a simple conversation could get so weird so quickly. "But then, here I am in a loony bin. You just got to stop talking about it. Especially to anyone who's going to take it back to Dr. Logan or Dr. Baylor."

"But if I don't talk about it," Sam said. "All these things in my head, it starts to spin around and--"

"Sam," said Dean, raising his voice a little. "Stay calm, okay? Greer is coming this way." He'd seen Greer out of the corner of his eye, making the rounds, checking on Mr. Pointy Fingers and Mr. Creamed Corn, and had spotted Dean and Sam.

If the staff talked, and they most likely did, then Greer knew about them sleeping together. A guy who looked like a former-Marine wouldn't be okay with it at all. But if he hurt Sam--

Greer came up, nodding at them both, mouth opening, just as Sam's spoon rattled violently in his bowl.

"Easy there, sport," said Greer. "Those meds'll kick in any second now and you'll have a nice, calm afternoon. Maybe working on sorting stones."

"Huh," said Dean. He was going to lose his mind, and sooner rather than later. But maybe Sam would enjoy it. He nodded at Greer as he walked off and leaned in to speak low. "We'll get to go outside, Sam."

Sam's eyes flickered low for a second, like he'd been absorbed in something other than what Dean was saying. "Sure," he said. "I'm tired of Laundry."

Dean was tired of the institution.

 

Chapter 10

After lunch, when they were in line to go somewhere, Dean didn't know exactly where, he got pulled out of line to go see Dr. Logan. He didn't know the orderly who was escorting him, and it happened to fast for him to protest. All he had was once glimpse of Sam's eyes going wide and scared, and he looked around for Greer, anyone, to take care of Sam, to keep him calm. It was all going to go to hell pretty fast if when Sam wasn't calm, someone figured out that he was on half meds and start to wonder why. God damn this place.

Dr. Logan waved him in, and Dean was heartily sick of her earnest smile and that damn white lab coat. Why did she need one anyway? It wasn't like she was in a lab. Full of ill humor, Dean sat in the chair she motioned to and crossed his arms across his chest. Maybe he should just give in and call Bobby, or even Ellen, maybe it wouldn't be so bad for them to find out.

"So?" she asked, sitting down, pert, smiling. "Everything going well, no talk of blue men or anything? No going on about vampires and zombies?"

Dean considered this, and made himself shrug, thought it made his shoulders hurt and his neck tighten. "He seems a little obsessed with not touching the soap, but other than that--"

Dr. Logan laughed a little, making Dean pause as he grew hot with irritation. It wasn't at all funny that Sam had been given a phobia about soap by the very people who were supposed to help him. But he needed to give Dr. Logan something to make her back off, to let her know things were cool, that Dean was handling it, that Sam was getting better. "He seems a whole lot calmer than he was in that hallway, and--"

Now she interrupted him. "Yes, exactly!" This seemed to excite her a great deal. "It's not revolutionary, what we're doing, but I've never done it, and it's interesting to watch it unfold, how Sam responds to you, how good you are with him."

"You're watching?" He knew he shouldn't be surprised, but he was.

"All the time. I mean, we don't have security cameras except at the outside doors, but the orderlies monitor the patients, I get records of med intake and reactions. How much you eat for lunch."

"The food sucks," he said without thinking.

"It's institutional food, with plenty of nutrition, even if it's not homemade." She wrinkled her nose a bit and nodded, eyes sparkling in a way that made her look attractive.

He still hated her, he decided. He tried to give her a smile, and maybe he succeeded, because she nodded and turned to the file on her desk.

"I've got some interesting news, for you Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Since you're so much better, and I can see Sam making strides every day, there will come a time when you'll want to leave to go back to your people. Since you can't remember who you are, I made a call and sent over your files to have them entered in the database."

"The database?

"Yes, for missing persons, to see if anyone is missing you. I mean, it's not country-wide at this point, not all police stations are hooked up yet, but we got your names out there, and your descriptions, a description of the car, so we'll see if anyone recognizes you. It's a long shot, but--"

"Database?" His mouth went suddenly dry, and his lungs felt out of air. He should have known this was coming. If he'd been all the way off his meds, he knew he would be able to handle this better. As it was--

"Sure. All kinds of agencies hook up with it, police, local news stations, hospitals, even the FBI is hooked up."

Fucking hell. _Henriksen_. He'd be on them so fast--

Dean didn't realize he was standing, but he could see her face go white as her mouth opened wordless. He was reaching for her, moving over the desk, grabbing her by the lapels of her fucking white jacket, wanting to shake her, to scream at her that that was the stupidest thing she could _ever_ have done. He had her, had her neck tight in his fingers, the papers on her desk went flying and there was a buzzing sound as she pulled back. Over balanced, Dean fell against the desk. He could smell something citrus, could hear her talking over the buzz in his head. He pushed back and got up, stumbled to the wall, holding his head, realizing his mouth was open and he was talking.

_You shouldn't have done that, you shouldn't have done that, you shouldn't have done that._

\--He should have called someone, Bobby, Ellen, hell, even Jo, even her, the first day. The _very_ first day, but it was too late. They were stuck behind walls and doors for which there was no key. Henriksen had a car, he could get there by plane. Fast. There was no doubt in Dean's mind, no doubt at all, that Henriksen watched all the lists, the bulletins. Had reports made for him of anyone even faintly resembling the Winchesters. And after the bank job? He'd be _merciless_.

Dean went for the door, and his hand was on the handle, when it snapped open and two orderlies flew in. The grabbed both his arms, and Dr. Logan said something to them that he couldn't hear, the buzzing got louder, and they shot him full of something before he could protest, pushing him up against the wall. He felt the needle go in, felt whatever had been in the syringe soak into every muscle and fiber and like an insidious snake, pulled at him. Pulled his head down, and his shoulders down, and he could hardly breathe.

He shrieked as they dragged him down the hall, his slip-on sneakers falling off at the least friction, his socked feet giving him no grip whatsoever. His screams for Sam bounced off the slick walls, and came back to slam him in the face. He pulled, but the orderlies' hands held him tight, and the walls seemed to narrow as they turned down a corridor, a new one, with overly bright bulbs and a wooden door at the end that loomed towards him like it wanted to grab him.

The door led to a room that had no windows. There was a row of light bulbs overhead that reflected off the metal slabs that had leather straps hanging off them. There was a pile of sheets on a table, and hoses hanging in circles on the wall. Dean took this in with a snap, wanting to scream so loud he felt the blood was going to come pouring out of his throat. But all that came out was a high-pitched wail as the orderlies stripped him down to his bare skin, tossing everything in a pile, and then hauling him onto a table.

They rolled him in a sheet, his arms pinned at his sides, then they took one of the hoses down from the wall. For a second, they held it there above him, one metallic eye, and then the water came streaming out. They soaked the sheet around him, he could feel it oozing in, first lukewarm, and then icy cold. All over, coating him in the icy water, like he was trapped in a deep, damp freeze. Then they strapped him to the table with the leather straps, too tight over the chest and knees, locking him immobile. Then they turned off the lights. Then they left him.

He was alone. But worse, Sam was alone.

He stared, blinking into the darkness for one long minute. His arms ached from the cold, his toes were trapped at an odd angle. Folds of cloth pinched his left hip. Then he started to shiver, but couldn't move enough to keep him warm. Above him the nothingness expanded, like a noisome grey blanket intent on swallowing him. But it had no texture, no sound. And beyond the low, dull grit of cement, no smell.

He couldn't even wiggle to adjust his neck, the muscles started screaming at him, but then, it faded away like his body had been cut off. He almost couldn't feel a thing, but his mind knew that he couldn't move. His mouth tried making sounds behind the plastic clamp, but it came out an ineffectual hum. And still the darkness grew.

The worst of it was his thoughts of Sam that spun around and around, in a loop that started just as soon as it was ended. He couldn't stop it. Sam on his own, Sam freaking out because where was Dean and who was going to look after him? Who was going to be nice to him, and touch him and hold him like he liked it? No one. There would be no one, and Sam would flip. He might cry, with his mouth screwing up to try and keep from crying, confused and alone and not wanting to be hurt. Or maybe he might start growling and biting and shoving people in dryers and then the hospital would really get mad, and they might decide that a lobotomy was, really, the best course of action. And then they would do it, and all because Dean couldn't keep a cool head, and it would be _all his fault_.

Part of him thought _I'm in_ _Treatment_ , and the rest of him kept screaming as Sam's face faded in and out of his mind's eye, Sam's name one long, hollow, empty echo in his ears.

*

They took Dean away, but nobody seemed to notice.

Sam stopped. His mouth fell open as he watched Dean walk off, calmly, like nothing was wrong. But it was so sudden, so scary, because if they could just make Dean go away like that, with only one glance of those green eyes to say goodbye, then they could do anything, absolutely anything they wanted.

The orderly and Dean turned the corner and then Dean was gone.

Sam let the line go on without him, and just as it got to the back door, someone opened it and he could see that the patients were going outside.

Shaking, his hands clenched and unclenched along his thighs. His heart pounded hard against his chest, about to explode. It wasn't just that there was no way he was going to be able to go outside without Dean. He didn't know where Dean _was_ , where he was in the vast warren of the hospital, and maybe Dean was already--

The thought of Dean being gone yawned in front of him right there in the hallway, a large, black mouth, with teeth and nasty spit, a forever chasm of _no Dean_.

His palms were sweating as he stood and saw the patients gathering on the lawn as the door swung shut and for a moment he was alone, by himself, with no one watching him. He felt prickles of something sharp and electric racing up the back of his legs, spiraling up his spine, along his ribs.

He had to find _Dean_.

He turned on his heel. But the hallway stretched out in front of him, the end of it wavering like a shiny beige snake; he shut his eyes as fast as he could. He was shaking, he felt dizzy. He was marooned there, couldn't go outside, couldn't walk down the hall to find Dean. Wasn't any use to anybody, stupid, stupid Sam. His eyes were hot and thumping, like someone was waving a lit candle behind them, and he couldn't feel his toes.

Someone came up and touched him, and Sam swung with his fists, eyes still closed, baring his teeth, taking a deep breath. It hitched in his throat, and it wasn't enough, his lungs were burning, and the hands pressed him against the wall.

"Sam," said the voice. Sam didn't recognize it. He tried to lurch away, but the hands held him, and the voice called for someone else to help him. "Sam what are you doing in the hallway by yourself? You should be outside."

He opened his eyes. It was an orderly he didn't know, maybe he'd seen him in the dining hall, but he didn't know him.

Sam's mouth opened wide, he felt the moisture on his lip, wondered if he was spitting as he breathed, wondered how long before they knocked him out and dragged him off for Treatment. He wasn't supposed to have outbursts anymore, he was supposed to--

"What's wrong, Sam?" the orderly asked, in a voice that was low enough so that Sam had to lean forward to hear it. Like he was listening to a secret.

"Can't find _Dean_ ," said Sam, quivering. He so desperately wanted to make somebody understand so they would take him to Dean. "Dean's not here and the sky is too big to be alone."

The orderly held him there a moment while someone else came closer, and as Sam looked up, he saw it was Greer. Greer had Dr. Logan's ear, whatever he told her she would believe. Sam started to shake.

"What's up, Rubio?" asked Greer, coming close but not touching Sam. Sam felt the sweat pool under his arms and along the backs of his knees. His upper lip was hot but he couldn't wipe it because his arms were being held down. He shut his mouth, and tried to breathe through his nose but it was coming out in a whistle.

"Says he doesn't want to go outside without Dean," said Rubio, looking at Greer, his grip on Sam's arms loosening a bit.

Sam twitched his arms away and moved back, but as Greer took a step closer, Sam realized there was no way he could run fast enough and it would look bad. It would make Dr. Logan mad. And then she might never give Dean back to him. He wanted Dean back so much, the emptiness of being without Dean was starting to shred him from the inside out. Little, whirring blades, slicing into soft parts of him, taking him apart, shred by painful shred, making him bleed.

He pressed himself against the cool of the wall, letting it soak into him, and tried to breathe slow. But it was hard, so hard, without Dean.

"What's going on, Sam?" asked Greer, like Sam had merely paused in some task or other and only needed mild prodding to get going again. "You don't like the rain?"

"Shouldn't I get someone?" asked Rubio, stepping back to let Greer handle it. "I've seen this guy's file."

"We're not going to have an outburst, are we, Sam?" asked Greer. He put a hand on Sam's arm, and though Sam's whole side twitched, he let it stay. Greer was big and strong and scary.

"I want Dean," said Sam as slowly and clearly as he could, the buzz in his head turning to a high-pitched rattle that sounded like hail against a window. "I can't go outside without Dean, where's _Dean?_ "

Greer made a small sound in his throat, and nodded at Sam. "Okay. We're okay. Dean just went for a meeting with Dr. Logan, and no one told you. He should be right back. How 'bout you work in the laundry room till he gets here."

"Laundry?" Sam asked, his voice rising. "Without Dean?" He couldn't go anywhere without Dean.

"It's either that or go outside, Sam, I can't just leave you here in the hall."

"I could wait by the office where he is, I could--"

"That's not how it works. You can't just hang around, you need to be productive, okay? So which is it? Outside or Laundry?"

Sam couldn't think, but he forced himself to come to a skittering halt because he knew that Greer would make up his mind for him if he didn't make it up himself and then he might never see Dean again. The edges of his skin felt numb, his jaw line aching as though it had taken a blow. His hands flexed of their own volition and Greer seemed to take it as a signal. He let Sam go.

"Sam?" asked Greer.

"Laundry," said Sam. He felt like he was telling someone something he shouldn't and Dean wouldn't like that. Would he understand why Sam had given in? "Tell Dean I went to Laundry." The laundry room was safe and dry and closer to Dean, even if Neland hated him.

"I'll take you there," said Greer. "Rubio, go and let Edgerton know where I am."

Rubio went off and Greer led Sam down the hall. He felt like someone was poking him, over and over, because Dean wasn't there. He'd gotten so used to him being there and Greer was walking fast like he had someplace else to be; Sam kept up as best he could, feeling shaky, like someone was running an electric current through him. Panting. Desperate. By the time they got to the laundry room, Sam was seeing black spots in front of his eyes.

Neland was at the door, frowning as usual. "Rubio just called," he said, not moving out of the way.

"You _have_ to take him," said Greer. "I've got yard duty and we're short, and I don't have time to babysit." He gave Sam a slight tug on his arm.

Sam jerked his arm away, he didn't want Greer touching him, he wanted Dean.

"He's a handful already," said Neland.

"Deal with it," said Greer, letting go of Sam.

Neland sighed and stepped aside, and for a moment, as Greer was already walking away, Sam felt the empty echo of being in the laundry room without Dean. He shifted from foot to foot, blinking, trying to clear his vision. The washers were going at full bore and he recognized the table where he and Dean had worked that morning. There were some of the towels that they had folded, still along the table's edge. He moved towards it, without thinking, maybe some of Dean would still be there.

"Hang on," said Neland. "Wash your hands first."

Sam didn't want to do this, not without Dean. His knees quivered as he tried to decide whether to do what Neland said, or to start slamming things with his fists. Then he heard it. A loud thump and a crash from the other end of the corridor, like a door had been slammed open. Then there was a long wail. He felt someone along his spine jump, alive and stinging and then he realized he heard a name. His name.

"Sam!"

Sam moved towards the door. It was Dean.

" _Saaaaaaaaaaaaaam!"_

There was another thud, sounding metallic and thick that echoed down the hallway. And then nothing. Not a single sound. Sam's muscles bunched in his legs as he started to take off-- Dean _needed_ him--but he felt something on his arm and looked down.

"You take off and so help me, I press that button."

Everything came to a sharp halt. It was Neland. Neland was touching him, threatening him. Neland could do anything he wanted, including reporting to Dr. Logan that Sam had disobeyed him. Sam felt the buzz in his ears, behind his eyeballs, still agitated with that electric current he could barely focus, but he knew Neland was scowling. The sound of the dryers crawled over him, like flies with bloody feet. He clamped his hands over his ears. He needed to save Dean, he needed to run--

Neland's assistant came up.

"Looks like he's starting to spin," the assistant said. "Should I get Greer? He's too big for us to take down if he goes nuts."

"I don't need that jarhead to help me keep order in my own laundry room," said Neland with some acid. "Just keep those washers going because we're behind as usual. Damn morons."

Now the assistant was gone and it was just him and Neland. Other patients worked among the tables, folding or moving towels and sheets from the washers into the dryers, just as peaceful as could be. Except that Sam's throat closed up, and he was breathing hard like he was about to start screaming and Neland wasn't moving out of the way of the path to the door.

Dean's scream for him joined the buzz in his head. And Neland looked like he hated him, really _hated_ him.

"Take a step back, Sam, and listen up."

Sam tried to hunch down, sweating all over, not liking the feel of towering over Neland without Dean at his side to balance him out. Like a big, dumb, stupid moron of no use to anybody. And somewhere, Dean was still screaming.

"Sam, you listening to me?"

Sam tried to do as he was told, tried to look at Neland while he was talking, but his eyes kept going to the doorjamb, judging the amount of space between him and the hallway. How fast he would have to move to get past Neland.

"You are here on sufferance, Sam," said Neland. "One wrong move and you'll be yanked out of here so fast your head will spin. If it isn't spinning already. You got me?"

Dean. He wanted _Dean_. "Dean," he said. His throat ached.

Neland stepped up close to Sam's body, looking at Sam with his eyes blazing, like he didn't care that Sam outweighed him by pounds and inches. He was way too close, but Sam was too startled to move away.

"Half you guys are faking it, and I can see it in your eyes that you understand every single word that I'm saying. You can't fool me, you got that?" Neland was practically growling. "You guys need less coddling and more following the rules. You stay in this room, and you will see Dean. Mess with me, and you'll see the bottom end of a black pit, so deep they will never find you. You get me?"

For a moment, all Sam could do was stare. He felt pretty sure that Dr. Logan would not approve of Neland's tone, or his threatening stance, but Sam got it. More clearly than if it had been spelled out for him. He had two options, one of them did not include getting his Dean back. He shook his head, very clearly saying _no_ , pressing his spine straight. If Dean had been dragged off somewhere, when he came back, as Neland was inferring he would, then Sam needed to be ready.

"Where's Dean?" he asked, trying to stay calm, to breathe slow.

Neland paused, and Sam could see him looking at the laundry room, full of busy, content patients, at the distance to the door, and then back at Sam. Up at Sam, who was a good foot or so taller than Neland, who seemed to be weighing something in his mind, behind his eyes.

"I can check," said Neland. Then he pointed his finger at Sam. "I will. But you move from this spot, so help me God--"

Sam shook his head almost violently. He wasn't going to move, not for anything, if only he could find out where Dean was. What had happened to him. Why he'd been screaming for Sam. Sam's brain felt like it was a one way track, and couldn't turn left or right till he found out.

Neland stepped toward the phone on the wall, keeping his eyes on Sam the entire time. From across the room, the assistant orderly was watching too, near the dryers along the wall, and Sam stood still. Still as a statue, a game he remembered from when he was young, when his brother would pick him up and toss him across the grass, and Sam would land and freeze, and his brother would pace and pretend to fret as he tried to guess what Sam was. It always took him forever, and eventually, Sam realized that his brother drew it out for fun. And would guess badly so that he would have to pick Sam up and toss him again, and again, and _again_ \--

On the phone, Neland was talking to someone, nodding. "Okay," he said. "I'll keep him here till then." Then he hung up. And came over to Sam.

"He had an outburst in Dr. Logan's office," said Neland quickly, as if saying the words fast would hurt less. "I don't know what about, but he's been taken to Treatment. He'll be released later tonight. You," he jabbed Sam in the gut with a pointed finger, "need to mind me till then, and do as you're told, and eat your supper, and take your pills, and then--"

Treatment? The scream in Sam's head pitched high and fast and he opened his mouth to let it out. But Neland poked him in the stomach again, hard, making Sam's mouth snap shut. He blinked.

"You do as I say, Sam," said Neland. "You stay calm and don't make me press the panic button, and then you'll see Dean."

"I'll see Dean." Sam said this with finality, he didn't care what Neland thought of it. He would give them until after supper. If he didn't see Dean then, he would bite someone. Maybe kill them. He didn't care.

Neland looked like he wanted to jab Sam again, but didn't. "All you morons are alike," he said. "Always in your own heads." Then he shook his head slowly. "Oh, forget it. Just wash your hands and get to folding. I don't even care, you hear me? I just don't care."

Sam did as he was told, numb all over, spine feeling like it had been jimmied by something, stiff, fused together. His hands under the hot water felt disconnected, his arms all akimbo as he dried his hands off. Dean was in Treatment, Dean would be released later. Until then, Sam was on his own. Left to drift through the halls of the hospital, without an anchor, without anything.

But that wasn't the important part. Dean was in Treatment, and Sam knew how that was. How it was supposed to help and calm you, but how it wound you up tighter than a power coil, wires wrapped around the center of you and shot through with cold and helplessness. If Dean was like him, the immobility would be the worst part, far worse than the icy water, or the darkness. The holding still, not being able to move. And your arms, Sam knew you couldn't lift your arms, and sometimes they shot you full of stuff that made you groggy for hours and hours and hours. Sometimes even the whole next day. You couldn't do anything at that point, and you belonged at the mercy of the hospital. And all because you couldn't control your fear or terror. Or screams.

He didn't remember Dean ever telling him that he'd had Treatment, or if he had, how he'd gotten through the aftermath. Dean was strong, sure, and brave, and could smile in spite of anything. But Sam knew that this would knock him on his ass, that afterwards, he would be limp and sad. And if Sam went off half-kilter, there would be no one who would care. Oh, sure, the orderlies would take care of him, but they would ignore what was going on inside his head, the turmoil which Treatment was supposed to cure but which instead made everything worse. Sam knew that, in spite of what Dr. Logan had told him time after time: Treatment helps, even if it doesn't feel like it.

Sam took a deep breath and went to the table that he and Dean had shared that morning, in those hours before lunch. Where they'd folded towels, elbow to elbow, Dean's eyes becoming unfocused as he zoned out, thinking about something else. But never so far that it felt like he'd forgotten Sam at his side.

He started folding towels. He remembered Dean, cleaning up pee from the floor, and Sam had never said thank you. Dean, making him special oatmeal, making sure Sam ate. Dean making a wish on the dandelion, his cheeks puffing up, exaggerated, Sam could see now, his eyes, green fire, watching Sam as he made his wish. Listening to Sam's stories, holding him close in the cold dark.

He would be good. He would work, and then he would eat his supper, and when he got his Dean back, he would take good care of him. Like Dean had taken care of him. Even if Dean peed or threw up or protested at the care, like Sam sometimes felt like doing, he would be brave, like Dean was brave, and he would make sure Dean knew he wasn't alone. Because Treatment made you feel alone, in the dark, with no one to hear you.

Sam looked over at Neland, who was standing there with a clipboard in his hands, counting towels. Neland might not like Sam, he'd made a promise and all Sam could do was hope he would keep it.

Sam made himself fold towels, all afternoon, without taking a single water break.

When the supper chime came, Sam was ready. He stood in line by himself, without his Dean. He walked down the hall without talking to anybody. He took his pills from the pill lady and put most of them in his pocket. She never noticed, she was busy with her clipboard. Sam even ate his supper, ate it all, even the slippery carrots, which he wasn't much fond of. He liked his fried in butter, not boiled in salt. But he ate them anyway, even if there was no Dean there to convince him that they were good for him.

When supper was over, he took his tray up all by himself, saw Greer across the room. Greer nodded at him as if he knew exactly why Sam was behaving himself. Sam didn't care. All that mattered was getting back to Dean.

When he was taking his tray up to the counter, an orderly came up to him. It was Rubio from before, Sam felt proud that he recognized him.

"Okay?" asked Rubio, as if they'd been having a conversation all along, and he was looking for confirmation from Sam.

"Okay," said Sam, not really sure what he was agreeing to.

 

Rubio took him down the hallway, but not towards the Day room, which was usually what happened after supper. No, Rubio took him down the hallway where the rooms were, down the hallway to their room, and Sam had just a second to wonder why when Rubio stopped in front of the door and took out a chain of keys.

"Dr. Logan says, here you go. Have a good night, Sam."

Rubio unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Sam could see the lights were on and that someone was in the bathroom. It was Dean.

 _Dean_.

Sam didn't even feel the door shut behind him. Because Dean was there.

*

Dean didn't know how long he was there. Floating, and landing, floating and smashing, seeing flickers of light where there could be none, and jolts of pain from parts of his body that wanted to move but couldn't.

Hours. Faces above him. Beside him. Coming at him. Loops and whorls of color out of the blackness like stabs from curved knives. Something swooping, like wings, dipping down to stab with feathers that turned into blades. Flies buzzing, bloody feet touching his face, unable to twitch away. The blue man with lightning in his hands. Sam's blue man, there in the room with him.

Sam.

Sam.

 _Sam_.

Hours. Darkness. And no Sam.

He felt someone's hand on his face, felt like he was going to throw up and shit his pants all at once. Except he had no pants. There was light coming from behind the fingers of the hand. Other hands, eased away the leather straps, twirling off the cotton sheet, stiff in places, dried in others, warmed from his skin. He let someone help him sit up, naked and boneless.

"Close your eyes," he heard Greer's voice say.

So he did. The light came through his lashes, and there was Greer's hand, he knew that hand, on his arm, making him get down from the table.

"There now, not so bad. You've had Treatment before, it always helps."

Dean wanted to kill someone, but he couldn't make his arms move. Could only stand, with his eyes closed as a veritable stranger made him put his underwear on one leg at a time, He opened his eyes to take a peek, Greer was bending over to pick them up, and he saw Dean looking at him. Dean felt sick, but Greer was only businesslike, helping Dean finish getting dressed, helping him with his pants and a shirt. Where were his socks and sneakers? Greer helped him put them on. He put a hand on Greer's shoulder to steady himself.

"'t time is it?" He voice sounded like it had been filtered through gravel.

"Past supper," said Greer. "You'll be more hungry in the morning anyhow."

With a firm hand, Greer made Dean walk down the hall, and Dean had to concentrate on stepping, looking at his feet, seeing Greer's feet, the low gleam of wax on the floors, the ooze of sunset and night's darkening outside the bank of windows as they passed them.

"Sam," he said. He couldn't make his tongue function to get the rest of the question out.

"He's fine. He didn't want to go outside without you, so we put him back in laundry with Neland. He kept asking for you. He's fine."

Dean wanted Sam so bad, he thought he was going to die.

They reached the room, and Greer came in with him, handed him a tablet from the bottle in his hand. A cup of water from the sink. Dean took the pill and the water in his mouth, and made himself not swallow the pill. The water tasted good, a bit metallic as the coating of the pill melted.

"Get some rest, Dean," said Greer. "Just go to bed, and in the morning you'll feel like a new man."

Dean wanted to glare at Greer, though he had a feeling that not a single muscle in his face was moving. The door shut behind him, and Dean spit out the pill before he could swallow it, watching the toilet rush with water, needing to pee. He remembered Sam talking about wetting himself after Treatment, so he unzipped his fly and pulled himself out to pee.

Just at that moment, the door opened, and in Sam flew, right up to Dean's side, stepping back only a little. Dean wanted to shove him away, but he only peed and washed his hands, and tried to tamp down his irritation.

"Dean," said Sam. Breathless.

"Just leave me the fuck alone," said Dean, low. Growling as he pushed past Sam into the main room. He'd wanted Sam but now that Sam was here, nearby, he wanted nothing but more silence. His head on the pillow. Alone.

"Are you okay, are you okay, Dean? Talk to me, please, talk--"

Dean shoved Sam off with an elbow, his heart a runaway train, black rage pushing through his skin. Sam stumbled back, and with a grunt, Dean shoved him again, against the bed, making him fall to his knees. Then he reached down and grabbed Sam by his cotton shirt, pulling him up so he could scream in his face.

"You fucking touch me and I will kill you, I'll fucking _kill_ you--"

Sam didn't try to get away, though the whites of his eyes were round and hard, he touched the back of Dean's hands with his own, and tried to catch Dean's eyes, but Dean wasn't looking, couldn't look, wasn't going to look--

"Dean," said Sam, his voice low. Soft. "You're hurting me."

This stopped him. Stopped him so hard, he toppled off his feet and onto his knees, banging hard on the hard floor, kneebones ringing, his ribs sliced by the edge of the mattress. And Sam was there, his hands on Dean's face, eyes rounded with concern, and gentle, so gentle, his thumbs brushing beneath Dean's eyes, across the top of his cheekbones, over and over. Coming away, glinting with damp.

Christ.

"Don't cry, please don't cry…."

"'m not," said Dean, his mouth thick around the words. He wasn't. But he could taste the salt as it slipped into his mouth. Felt the fist in his throat. "Not."

"It's okay, don't cry, I'm here, I'll stay here with you."

Sam leaned in, lips touching Dean's cheekbone right below his eye. He could feel the flutter of Sam's eyelashes as he kissed again, and then again. Kissing the tears away like he was soaking them up.

Something kicked in Dean's stomach "Hey. Knock it off." He tried pushing Sam's hand away, his face, almost ineffectual. Then he got to his feet lumbering, tilting. He only wanted to be in the bed, with his head on a pillow, a real pillow. He wanted to lie there till the floating feeling went away, and the darkness wrapped him. He only wanted to sleep.

Sam got to his feet too, standing to one side, watching Dean get into the bed, his eyes worried, bright.

Dean kicked off his sneakers, and couldn't be bothered with changing into pajamas or pulling down the sheets and the blanket. He lay back, sighing from his soul as his neck felt the cotton of the pillow. Closed his eyes.

He could feel Sam getting in beside him, pulling the cotton sheet and the rough thin blanket down beneath Dean's body and over them both. Sam was so close, almost on him, his hip hooked over Dean's hip. It felt almost good, like there was the chance of an anchor there, to hold him down, to keep the wild winds at bay.

"You come'ere," he said. Grunting as he reached over and pulled Sam fully on top of him like another blanket. A living breathing one. Sam didn't protest. He came willingly, settling on top of Dean like he'd always been there, weaving his thighs in and out of Dean's thighs, the warmth of his body springing into Dean like a surprise. The weight of him solid and good as Sam's arms curved up around each side of Dean's head. He could feel Sam's fingers in his hair. Holding him down.

"You want me to kiss you some more?"

He opened his eyes a little to see Sam there, so close, those green eyes bright with care and worry, wanting only to do something that Dean might need. Wanting to find out what that was. Wanting only to give.

Dean opened his mouth to say _no_ , because that was too much, brothers didn't do that, Winchesters didn't do that, but Sam was there, his mouth moist on Dean's forehead and that was okay. On his cheek, a small kiss, also okay. Sam's lips were warm, and the swimmy feeling in Dean's head was going away to a far off finish line in someone else's race, and he didn't care where.

A kiss to his other cheek, equally warm, sweet, tender. Then, Sam's eyes adoring, on his mouth, and there wasn't enough room to pull back or time to close his mouth against Sam's. He tasted Sam, mind moving back a little even as he dipped his chin, and opened his mouth to let Sam in. The dampness of tongue touching his lips, the stream of breath from Sam's nose crossing his skin, petting it. Sam's mouth opening, and the swirl of heat between them.

His eyes closed, and his whole body shuddered like a hard bore engine coming to a sudden stop. Weight slammed into him, delicious and heavy, Sam's body all around him, that mouth, sweet and wide, pushing into him, he shouldn't be liking it. Shouldn't relax into it. Did.

Sam pulled away a bit, his mouth near Dean's as he whispered, "You sleep now, get some rest. Treatment is bad, but you sleep good. And in the morning, I'll be here. Okay? Dean?"

The voice faded. Maybe Sam was talking maybe he wasn't. But he was there, heaving and weighing Dean down. Keeping him from floating away on the nothingness. Sam. He loved Sam. He always had. That wasn't a bad thing, but the kisses--

 

**Chapter 11**

It was really his job to take care of Sam, but that morning, everything was in reverse. They were awake and dressed before the door opened, but that was only because he'd felt Sam tugging on him, felt the cool air across his front as Sam pulled away, splayed the covers back. He only brushed his teeth because Sam handed him a toothbrush. He let Sam shave him.

When they got to the dining hall, he followed Sam, and could barely manage that. Sam dealt with the pill lady. He only remembered not to take the meds in the dining hall because Sam had shook his head. Sam got them their trays, found them a table. Sam opened his milk carton for him and pushed it towards him so he would drink. He took a swallow, and he realized he was watching Sam make and eat his oatmeal like a man on a desert island dying for water.

After a pause, Sam tipped his head and stopped. He pulled Dean's oatmeal toward him and doctored it up. Then he picked up Dean's spoon and dipped it in the bowl. Before he was even thinking it, Dean bent his head down and let Sam feed him, swallowing the cool, milky oatmeal and looking at Sam. Sam nodded, and continued feeding him like nothing had happened. Rubio had fed him before, Sam was feeding him now, what of it? Nothing.

Sam fed Dean all of his oatmeal before he ate his own, and then pushed the toast towards Dean. Dean ate the toast, and ignored the grey-colored eggs and soggy bacon, he only wanted more milk. Some of Sam's oatmeal, too, but he wasn't going to ask. Sam had finished anyway

Greer herded them into a line with some other patients, and led them down the hallway. When they stopped in front of an open doorway, he waved at them to go in through the door, and said, "Art therapy, gentlemen."

Art therapy was held in a long narrow room that had a bank of sunny, almost normal looking windows. Well, except for the bars across all of them. There were tables and stacks of large squares of paper and boxes of chalk. It reminded Dean of school as he entered the room, the smell and the dust.

The therapy was run by a short little woman by the name of Miss Windle. She had a squinty little face and a fast way of talking and moving her hands. She was, except for her white apron, dressed all in brown from her sensible blouse to her flat, lace up shoes.

"Today," she said, waving her hands around to point at the room, "we are going to do some diagnostic drawing, but don't worry, it doesn't hurt."

Some of the guys laughed a bit at this as Miss Windle nodded to have her assistant set everyone up at a table, and made sure that everyone had paper and chalk. Sam stuck by him as they found themselves a table like everyone else was doing. Then Sam grabbed the chalk, pale rose chalk, and brought it to his face. For a second, Dean thought he was going to eat it, but Sam only held it under his nosed and inhaled.

"You going to eat that?" asked Dean, just to be sure.

"No," said Sam, smiling, putting the chalk back in the little metal tray. "It smells good though. Like I smelled it before."

Dean was about to open his mouth to ask about school, and remind Sam of that, of all the chalk trays, all the chalk dust that had most likely gone into young Sam's lungs, when Miss Windle showed up at their table. She looked up at them, her head craning back like she was looking at two very tall telephone poles.

"Everybody needs to draw a house. I don't care what kind of house, but you must draw a house. Okay? Get started and have fun!"

Have fun, she said. Dean nodded till she went away. Sam was already busy at it, black chalk flying like he was conducting an orchestra. Dean wasn't certain but the use of the word diagnostic might mean that someone would look at the art to see if it would help them figure stuff out about the patients.

"Draw a nice house, Sam," said Dean. "Put in a sunrise. Or a puppy. Okay? Something happy."

"Uh-huh," said Sam, and Dean felt his headache return. He hoped it was the withdrawal from the meds and not a brain tumor. He had to get them out of there.

Dean picked up a piece of chalk, something that might have been dark brown but that didn't have a label, from the little basket in front of him. He pulled it to his face to smell it like Sam had, inhaled the old-fashioned dusty smell, and thought that he liked it. Maybe because of Treatment yesterday that might have done something to his sense of smell, but it was a familiar smell, amongst all the others.

Sam was looking at him, a little smile there, in his eyes, as if he liked being the one to show Dean something, tell him something new. "The white ones are the best." He held out one to Dean, and again, instead of taking it, Dean leaned in and smelled it in Sam's hand. Could smell Sam's skin, and thought that he felt better for it. Not so tired.

"Okay, now, boys, you start drawing." This from Miss Windle, and Dean got to work, forgetting about Sam.

He drew a window. A little square window with four panes, the window that hadn't been in the Treatment room. Not with the little half circles for pink curtains, nor the long yellow lines he made for the sun.

After a bit, Miss Windle, who had been wandering around the room, came up to him.

"What's that Dean?"

"A window," he said. He was starting to feel achy, felt the headache growing behind his eyeballs.

"It's very high up, can you tell me why?" she asked.

"High up?" It wasn't a real window; he didn't know anything about art, and this certainly didn't fall into the category by a long shot.

She pointed to the long yellow lines. "This is the sun coming in, and they make the window look like it's high up on the wall, because the sun comes in such a long way."

"It's a window I can't get to," he said, not thinking.

But this made her happy. She nodded and smiled, her little head bobbing on her shoulders. "It's important to have goals, Dean," she said. Then she turned to Sam's drawing.

When Dean looked over, his heart sank. He could barely focus on one thing at a time, but he should have paid closer attention. Sam had drawn a house with smoke coming out of all the windows, with a tree next to it that looked like it had long wavy hands for branches. Crap.

"Now this is interesting," said Miss Windle, in a voice that meant that it was far, far too interesting to be normal. "Did you draw this from your dreams, Sam?"

Dean's mouth popped open to supply the answer, but Sam was already talking. "No," he said, "but that's what I remember someone telling me, what happened the night my mom died."

"She burned in a house fire?" asked Miss Windle.

"No," said Sam. "I mean, yes there was a house fire, but she died because she was pinned to the ceiling and she bled out."

"Pinned to the ceiling?" By the tone of her voice, Dean could tell she was still in the neighborhood of thinking that Sam meant something else by what he'd just said, something more sensible. "Pinned?"

Sam nodded. "By a demon. A yellow eyed demon."

"Interesting," said Miss Windle. She gave Dean's drawing only a glance as she rolled up Sam's drawing in her hand. "That is a very interesting event, Sam, and very colorful."

Sam, mollified, nodded again, taking her words at face value. Dean felt his stomach start to pinch up. _Interesting_ was not what you wanted to be in a state run mental institution.

"But," she continued, "you have to understand that we don't want you to draw anything imaginary. We want you to draw something real, something you remember."

"This _is_ real, my brother told me it was," said Sam, starting to scowl, his voice rising as he struggled to make his point. To Dean, yes, the picture made sense and was absolutely true. To hospital staff, it was exactly the problem they were trying to cure. His earlier admonishment to draw something normal had fallen on unheeding ears, and now Sam was on the radar. Again. Because Dean couldn't pay close enough attention, hadn't insisted.

"It is not real, Sam," she said, and Dean saw her look over to the orderly standing by the door. He was ready, in two seconds or less, to press the panic button. "People don't die while pinned to their ceilings, it's physically impossible and therefore imaginary. You do know what imagination is, don't you, Sam?" Her voice was on the edge of threatening, but Sam ignored it.

"Of course I do," he said, his chest rising, shoulders stiffening. He didn't bother to mind his tone, or that he was talking to someone with authority over him, someone who could cause him trouble. Around them, the room grew a little quiet as someone of the patients began to eavesdrop. "I know what's real and what's not, and this is real. This is what happened, are you saying that I'm lying? That my brother was lying?"

Miss Windle's mouth went thin. "I'm not saying that you're lying, Sam, but that you are making it up. You're confusing reality with some imaginary world in your head, and you need to stop. You need to understand why you need to stop, and you need to listen to me. Are you listening to me?"

The room round them was perfectly silent.

Sam opened his mouth and in another second, a long argument was going to come out of it. Dean applauded Sam's growing a backbone, but as he towered over Miss Windle, it looked bad. She was much shorter than him, and if Sam made so much as a twitch in her direction, the orderly was going to press the panic button. He had a record of violence, and every staff member knew it.

Dean reached over to Sam's sleeve and tugged on it, just enough to get Sam to realize where he was, to maybe think about what he was saying. The hard part would be to telegraph to Sam what not to say, without saying anything himself. He didn't want the hospital to think he was coaching Sam in any particular direction. Because then they would start to look more closely at other ways Dean was influencing his roommate. And that Dean did not want.

Sam twitched and looked at Dean, brows drawn together as though for a second he didn't quite recognize Dean. Then his jaw worked as Dean gave another tug and let go of the sleeve to pat Sam's arm. He gave the slightest shake of his head and watched Sam shudder to a stop, right where he was standing. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Miss Windle's eyebrows go up in amazement, taking off like two brown birds, but he concentrated on Sam.

"Well?" asked Miss Windle.

Dean watched Sam struggle with the question, and Dean did as well. What was she asking, what did she want answered. Oh yes, _are you listening_.

"He's listening," said Dean. "I think he just got a little overwhelmed."

"When I want an answer from you, Dean," said Miss Windle, snapping, "I'll direct it at you. In the meantime, Sam needs to listen. Otherwise, he's going to get yanked out of art therapy, and Dr. Logan is going to hear about how uncooperative he's being. Is that understood?"

In any other place, any, Dean would have barked out at her to leave Sam the hell alone. But they were locked in this room with the power-hungry art teacher, a muscled and attentive orderly at the door, a panic button, and miles of corridors between them and freedom. He needed to lock it down before he got them in more trouble than they could manage.

Beside him, Sam took a breath, and ducked his head down, trying to look small. He wasn't insane, he could obviously figure out when he was cornered. Dean stayed close, watched Sam's jaw work, watched him take a breath.

"I--I get confused," said Sam. "Confused sometimes." He cast a look at Dean, like he was throwing out a lifeline he very much hoped Dean would catch.

"It's his first art therapy," said Dean, ignoring the fact that it was his as well.

Miss Windle actually snapped her fingers at Dean. "Be quiet, Dean, and listen to me, both of you. Any more of this nonsense from either of you and there will be no more art therapy. This is a very important part of your therapy, but it's a privilege for well-behaved and cooperative patients only. As for you, Sam," she pointed her finger at him. "You be thinking about this for the next time, I do not want to see anything imaginary from you again, do you understand? Imagination's fine, but not when you are having a problem telling the difference between the two. Do not make me talk to Dr. Logan about this, do you hear?"

A long pause grew as Sam looked at her, glaring even as he backed down, lowering his shoulders, tucking his hands behind him. "Yes," he said, sounding like he was choking. "I'll try."

"There is no try," said Miss Windle. "There is only do."

She turned away, marching on her sharp little heels, and Dean tucked his head down and tried to swallow his smile, the bubble of a laugh that built hysterically in his throat at her pompous walk and the fact that she sounded pretty much like Yoda, only not as effective. The only thing that kept him from dissolving against Sam, muffling his yelps and snorts, was the look on Sam's face. His were tilted downward at the corners, and his lower lip was pushed out in a pout, and he seemed to be struggling, his body tight as he reached out with a finger to poke stiffly at the chalk on the table that had delighted him just moments before.

"It's okay, Sam," said Dean, as the sound level in the room rose a bit, as Greer came by to get them all, to put them in a line and to take them to their respective locations for the rest of the afternoon.

"Sam and Dean, in that line, you get to go outside."

Dean got into the line, tugging Sam with him. It was some kind of gift getting to go outside, in the fresh air, where he could check out the walls and the gates and not feel like he was a rabbit trapped in a box. Even if it did result in wet socks and smelly feet. Plus, it would be a nice distraction for Sam, to get him thinking about something else other than some snotty, power hungry artsy-farsty therapist who hadn't the first clue about how to be gentle with Sam.

"C'mon," he said. "It'll be okay, Sam, okay? Let's go outside for a bit and forget about her."

Sam nodded, his jaw stiff as he got in line beside Dean. "That wasn't any fun," he said.

"I don't think it was supposed to be," said Dean in return. "But hey, it's better than digging ditches."

*

Once outside, they picked up rocks, and weeds, and trash again, going in straggled groups most of the way around the hospital, their pale outfits showing up brightly against the green grass. The fence was white too, and Dean almost disappeared against it, as he ran his hands over it, like a desperate animal, checking the perimeter of his prison. He did want out, badly, Sam realized, though he'd not said anything since the dandelion wish. Would he leave when he had the chance, and then come back for Sam? Or would he march off to the horizon and forget Sam had ever existed?

On top of which, Miss Windle's scolding was whirling around in his head. He knew she had power, enough to get him slapped into solitary, or even Treatment, and that was bad. Not just because he would be alone, but because he would be without his Dean. Dean who never forgot Sam was at his side, even when he was totally absorbed in the fence or bending to pick up trash. He looked a little drawn, even as he seemed to be enjoying the fresh air, and for a moment, Sam forgot Miss Windle. And remembered his promise to look after Dean. This new thought slid into place and Sam let the art therapy class fade into unimportance. Dean was what mattered here.

As he followed Dean, the metal bucket banged against his leg. The metal was cold and damp, and the handle ridged uncomfortably in his hand, leaving a mark. Every now and then he would bend down to pick up a scrap of anything that didn't belong, a twig, a stone, a bit of cigarette paper. But really, this was a very nice lawn, which it should be, given the amount of time they spent working on it.

"Dean," he said, to get Dean's attention.

"Uh-huh?" Dean hunkered down, sitting on his heels as he dealt with a small clump of weeds. Sam settled down beside him, on his heels, too.

"You know, yesterday, when they were taking you off--"

Dean looked up at him, a little sharply, eyebrows scrunching together.

"I was scared, but then I heard you screaming for me--"

"I screamed?"

Sam ignored the startled jolt of Dean's body, or the way his lips went thin. "Yeah, you screamed my name, I could hear it from the laundry room, and Neland said you--"

Dean went white and Sam realized that he'd been doing what he always did, carrying on, not paying attention to what was going on around him. He could hear a gruff, deep voice in his head, _damnit, Sam, you're not alone here, you're part of a team, so pay attention, or you'll find yourself dead, or worse yet, you'll find your brother dead_.

It was so clear, the voice, that for a second, Sam looked up and around, to see where it was coming from. Then he realized it was from in his head, and that he needed to do what it told him, or the look on Dean's face, the pale distress, the thinned lips, would become permanent. It was Sam's job to look after Dean till he recovered from Treatment, it was what he signed up to do.

Dean obviously didn't like being weak, it was even worse having it thrown in his face the way Sam just did. But Dean still needed Sam. And Sam needed to figure out how to help him. How to forget himself for _one damn minute_ , like he could hear the voice saying, and focus on Dean.

"Treatment is weird," Sam said, idly pulling on some perfectly good grass. "It doesn't hurt, not really, but, in your head, anything can happen. That's what's scary."

Dean was watching him, eyes narrowed and dark, crouched down, his hands on the grass, speckled with green and motionless. He chewed on the corner of his mouth like he was trying to figure out what Sam was saying, and why. Sam realized he wasn't making himself very clear.

"You're so brave," he said, thinking that it might make Dean feel shy to hear this out loud. "Braver than me, but Treatment takes the control out of your hands, so maybe you get more scared than I do because you're not used to it, not being brave."

It hadn't come out the way he meant it, somehow, that Treatment might be harder for Dean than it was for him. And then he realized that going off their meds meant that whatever they'd given Dean to make him relax--

He leaned forward and touched Dean's grass-stained fingers with his own cold ones. "We're going off our meds," he said. "They don't know that, so they gave you as much in that shot as they normally would. That's too much meds."

Something in Dean's eyes widened as he latched on to that, that it wasn't just him, it was the imbalance of the meds. "It would be like twice as much crap as normal," Dean said.

The smile he gave Sam, then, the soft, slow smile making its way to his eyes, made them bright, deep green like patches of grass in the shade. "Yeah," he said now, not shaking off Sam's hand. "You're right." He looked around like he was checking to make sure no one was coming by to tell them to get a move on. "Thanks for that, Sam."

This was good. Sam's chest filled with something that felt warm and steady. He'd said the right thing, made a difference. Had spelled it out to Dean and made Dean realize that it wasn't his fault, that any weakness or the dullness that filled his head, simply wasn't his fault. Dean seemed the type to take responsibility for everything, only know he knew better, because Sam had pointed it out to him.

Greer was coming close, and any second he was going to say something sharp, to bark out some order. Sam didn't want the comfortable thing running through him to go away. He stood up and reached down to grab Dean's hand and pull him to his feet. Dean seemed surprised at this, but let himself be pulled, his mouth working in a way that showed how he was trying not to smile.

"Get moving, boys," was all Greer said as he walked past.

The sun came out from behind the clouds, shining on the white fence, reflecting up to their faces. For a second, it shone on Dean's face, lighting it up, his eyes glittering like gems, his mouth, curved and soft. Sam thought he might want to kiss it some more, like he had the other night, to push into Dean's warm mouth, and see what soft sounds of contentment he might wring from it, as Dean kissed him back.

For a second, he moved close, but then Dean gave him a shove with his elbow, turning away, his profile outlined against the white of the fence.

"You're such a girl," he said, but his voice was smiling and Sam didn't really mind.

*

By the time there were led to their room, Dean was so tired, he forgot and took his sleeping pill. Sam spat his out in the toilet, where it left a little blue streak along the sides of the bowl.

"Shit," said Dean, when he realized.

"What?" asked Sam, crowding in behind him, like he had been all day, attentive and there and insisting, his eyes watching Dean, and behind his eyes Dean could see Sam thinking of ways to be helpful, to take care of Dean. If he hadn't been so tired, he would have told Sam to knock it off hours ago. But, on the other hand, Sam had his back, like he always had, and this was good for Sam, made him feel confident as he looked out for Dean. So that was a good thing.

"I swallowed my pill," he said, because that wasn't a good thing.

"It was an accident," said Sam, pushing forward. Dean could see the wavy reflection of Sam over his shoulder in the polished metal mirror. He felt Sam's fingers circle around his arm. "You didn't mean it."

"Well, I'll sleep anyway," said Dean. He brushed his teeth, and listened to Sam brush his. As they changed into their p.j.'s, the anvils came down over his eyes. The room was too cold to relax properly, the two beds loomed, and the decision had to be made all over again.

"Can I sleep with you?" asked Sam. He took the pillow off the other bed, and the blanket too, taking over Dean's job, spreading the blanket and folding back the sheet as he slipped off his shoes. "Can I?"

Dean nodded. Sleeping with Sam wasn't the hardest part of his day, not by a long shot. He made Sam get on the inside, next to the wall, then pulled Sam close, liking the huff of Sam's breath against his neck, curling like a scarf. The chime sounded and the lights went out and Dean knew he'd be asleep in minutes. Drugs were so stupid, but sometimes they came in handy.

"Can I tell you a story?" said Sam, his whispers tickling. Dean shivered.

"Yeah," he said, feeling heaviness coming. "Story."

"It's a story about my brother, my brother who loved me more than anything."

"More than anything?" asked Dean, his throat thick.

"I'm supposed to talk about him when I can, it's therapeutic, but sometimes it's hard to talk about him. And plus Dr. Logan doesn't like hearing about my dad."

"What?" Dean asked, trying to open his eyes. It was almost impossible. "Why?"

"She says he had issues, but this one time, I had borrowed this bike from the kid next door. It wasn't stealing, but the kid said it was, and when the kid's dad talked to my dad, well, he was pissed off. Only my brother said that he'd borrowed the bike. So my brother had to do chores for that guy for a week, raking and painting and stuff. The guy was mean, but my brother--"

Sam stopped and Dean could hear it in his voice, feel it in the tenseness of Sam's body, snug against his own.

"My brother never said a word. He was the best brother--"

It wasn't like a dam broke, more like the dam started leaking as Sam cried against his shoulder without a sound, moving in close so he could tuck his head low, like he was pressing his ear against Dean's heart. Dean struggled to stay awake, tried to make his mouth move. Thinking how he wished he could tell Sam that he didn't have to miss his brother, that his brother was alive, was right here--

"Your brother--" he said, knowing it was coming out mumbles, but he had to try. "Your brother loved you."

"What?" asked Sam.

Dean tried to say it again, but mid-sentence he stopped, his mind already floating in the black.

 

**Chapter 12**

The next day, in the morning and for the first time, he and Sam went to Group together. Which, all things considered would be a sign of Sam's improvement, the darkish drawing of the house in Lawrence notwithstanding. It was in the same little room as before, the circle of metal chairs a little askew, the sound of them being dragged as men sat down in them grating on his ears. He kept Sam close, motioned for him to sit right by him, waited for Dr. Baylor. He felt better than he had yesterday, and wondered how many days it would take them to get totally off the meds.

As they sat down, Dr. Baylor came in and took a chair, and behind him, Randy came in and stared at Sam. Right away, Dean could feel that Group was going to be more obnoxious than it usually was.

"I want to sit over there," said Randy, announcing it. He pointed at Dean although he was looking at Sam, creating a little princess drama about the new guy.

"Dean," said Dr. Baylor, "would you mind being flexible today?" He looked at Dean and pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the circle. Away from Sam.

"Why doesn't Randy ever have to be flexible?" Dean asked, not moving. Beside him, Sam's body stiffened as he shrank behind Dean. It made Sam uncomfortable to be the source of a confrontation. Dean felt the heat start to boil behind his eyes.

"Pardon?" asked Dr. Baylor looking up from his clipboard.

"Last time I had to be flexible. This time it's _his_ turn." It sounded so stupid, like he was one of those idiots, someone like Randy who always wanted it their way. Like he was one of these men who belonged in a place like this because they couldn't handle being all grown up in the outside world. But he'd rather be like that than let Mr. Pointy Fingers get his way again. Besides, he couldn't leave Sam.

"I see," said Dr. Baylor. He wrote something down on his clipboard. Probably something about Dean being inflexible. "Everyone please take a seat. Randy, you can sit by me."

Beaming, Randy sat down, his chin up as he settled into the prize spot.

"Alright, Randy, we'll start with you. How did you feel about not getting what you wanted?"

Without taking a breath, Randy started in, staring at Sam. "He almost killed that guy he put in the dryer," said Mr. Pointy Fingers. "He had to go to the infirmary."

"And you feel angry about that?" asked Dr. Baylor. He was balancing his clipboard over his crossed knees, looking like he was taking a break on a park bench. "It didn't happen to you, did it?"

"He might do it to me," said Mr. Pointy Fingers, actually pointing this time. "I don't want him to do it to me; that guy had a bandage on his forehead the next day."

"So you feel empathy for this other guy, Randy?" asked Dr. Baylor. "Empathy is a good emotion to have, it means that--."

Taking a deep breath, Randy broke in. "I can see it in his eyes, if he gets me alone he might stuff me in the dryer, or if Mr. Neland isn't looking, he might rape me in the laundry room."

Beside him, Sam stiffened, looking like he felt too big for the chair, the room even, and every single face in the circle was turned towards him.

"Now, Randy, it's unfortunate that you have to use such strong language, but Sam has never done anything bad to you, and when he was angry and things got out of control, yes that was bad. But Sam's better now, why do you still think he would hurt you?"

Everyone shifted in their seats like they were watching a tennis match, but at least they were looking at Randy now.

"Look at his hands, his shoulders. He's so big, he could pin me against the wall and take down my pants and--"

Dean stood up, outrage building in his chest so hard and so fast, he couldn't stop it. "Maybe you want it, you little fucker, maybe that's all you think about because--"

Randy shrank back, his eyes sparkling.

"Dean," said Dr. Baylor, looking calmly at the group. "Dean is upset because he's protecting his friend. He's expressing empathy for Sam's situation. Randy is projecting his fears about change onto Sam, which is--"

"This is bullshit," said Dean. "You need to shut him up, not encourage him." He whirled on Dr. Baylor, who had enough balls to look Dean straight in the eye.

"And you need to sit down, Dean." Dr. Baylor pointed towards the red panic button behind him on the wall. In three seconds flat, there might be two orderlies banging through the door to take Dean away; he didn't want that. Didn't like it, but a twitch of Dr. Baylor's finger in warning was all it took.

Dean sat down, feeling the muscles in his face twist, his mouth tight. He couldn't even look at Sam.

"Strong emotions are difficult to deal with," said Dr. Baylor to the group, "but they are appropriate when we feel threatened by something new or different. Handling things through violence is not appropriate, however, no matter what the provocation."

Dean's stomach felt sick with it, not figuring things out fast enough and getting them out of there. Letting some pervert lash out at Sam He leaned forward to rest his head in his hands, elbows digging into his knees, not participating anymore. He didn't care. They could give him all the black marks they wanted, could scowl and write things down on their crappy clipboards. It was so out of his control, with every step he took, every advance he made, someone came along and grabbed that out of his hands and made him go backwards. He _had_ to get them out of there.

Beside him, while Dr. Baylor droned on and actually encouraged someone other than Randy to speak, Sam shifted in his chair. The attention of the room wasn't on either of them, so that was good, but Dean didn't have the energy to lift his head. Then he felt something on his leg, and looked down. Sam's fingers had tucked themselves in to the top of his thigh, behind Dean's elbow, resting like a little lifeline. Dean reached down with his opposite hand, tucking it low, curling his fingers around Sam's.

Sam's hand was warm and firm and strong in his. Screw what anyone thought, they were already thinking it anyway, what did it matter. What mattered was Sam, reaching out like that. Especially after Sam's attentiveness of the day before, even if no one wrote it down on a chart, or even noticed it, Sam coming out of his own head like that was an advance. One that no one, not even Dr. Logan, could take away.

After Group, the day dragged like it had weights attached to it, and Dean was heartily sick of the walls and the smell and the sounds. The laundry room was boiling hot, and Sam sticking close to his side while they folded didn't make it any cooler, but Dean didn't move away. Across the room, Randy, who was making himself look busy by assuming himself to be Neland's assistant, eyed them constantly, watching Sam. Frowning the whole time.

Dean could see Sam trying to shrug it off, literally, shrugging his shoulders, and moving his neck to ease the tension there. Acting like he couldn't see Randy, looking only at Dean, or the towels in his hands.

The roar of the dryers kept them from talking much, but at one lull, Sam dipped his head in Dean's direction, like he wanted to say something.

"I would never do that to you," said Sam.

"Never do what?" Dean asked, tipping his head to hear better.

"Never without your permission."

The dryers started up again and all the washing machines joined in the din, and they couldn't talk. Dean couldn't figure out what Sam meant, or why he would need permission, or what he wouldn't do without it. So he folded towels, tried to enjoy being warm for once, wondered what was for supper. Thought about the broken window, and how he could figure out where that storeroom was in relation to their room. How he could get some wire to pick the locks on the doors, how many locked doors were between them and the storeroom. And why, finally, they couldn't just waltz out the front door?

Dean knew that sometimes the best strategies came out of idle thoughts, so he let them occupy him while they folded. Then the chime rang for supper, and they lined up to march down the hall. At one point, some other group, going in a different direction, moved too close to their line. Sam, in front of Dean, moved to the outside, so when someone bumped him in the shoulder, Dean was shielded from banging in the wall. Sam had probably seen it from his great height, the collision coming at them, however small, and had moved so that Dean wouldn't get smashed.

Up against the wall.

They were in line to get food when Dean got it. It had come from what Randy had said, the little pervert, about Sam shoving him against the wall and taking his pants down, about Sam having his wicked way with him. Flat out rape was apparently Randy's fantasy, back alley style, up against a wall. Not something Sam wouldn't do, but something Sam said he wouldn't do without Dean's _permission_.

For a second, his mind tried to organize around the mechanics of sex that way, standing up, then his stomach lurched and his feet got tangled somehow, landing him against Sam, who turned to look at him, pushing him away with an elbow. Dean started up at him, thinking about what Sam wanted, what Sam had never said he wanted, but what he'd been thinking about. A few kisses, getting him clean of the meds, and wham, his libido was back in action. All well and good, except his sole focus was Dean. Sometimes what Sam wanted, Dean decided as he got his tray of food, was not good for either of them. A bath was one thing. Fantasies about this sort of thing, no way.

*

At lunch there was no desert, and without the meds clouding his taste buds, the slices of meatloaf tasted like the pile of creamed corn that tasted like little mushy pebbles. The milk was cool, at least, but the bread was hard as a rock, and everything tasted exactly like nothing. A dull grey nothing. That taste might have a color might interest Miss Windle a great deal, but it just left Dean starving. He made himself eat a little of everything, both to keep prying eyes at bay and because he'd regret it later if he didn't. There was no walking down the road to the nearest gas station or bar for a late snack, not when there were at least three doors between him and the outside.

He'd counted them. Locked door to dorm room, locked door to ward, locked door to outside. It might be that the door between them and the stairwell was locked but it didn't make much difference if it was. Four doors, tops.

"What are you thinking about," asked Sam. He was pushing around his food as if he too found the fare a little grey.

"Counting doors," he said, not stopping to think how strange it sounded. Apparently no stranger than Sam spouting off about blue men and vampires, because Sam just nodded.

"Why are you thinking about that?"

Dean nibbled on his roll, licking the icy butter off a corner and thought about it. It was probably best not to tell Sam quite yet about the escape plan. Not just because it was still a vague outline in Dean's head but because Sam was still pretty devoted to the idea that this place would get him better.

Though, recently, he'd been looking at Dean with eyes that were filled with the unswerving belief that that was due in large part to Dean himself. Large, little brother eyes had been tracking him since Sam could focus; Dean tried not to squirm at the thought of those eyes focusing with memories of them kissing and narrowing with something more akin to hate and disgust. He had to take it slow. He had to get Sam and him out of there, and then, well, after then, they could straighten everything out.

"No reason," he said, finally, swallowing the last of his milk. "Just a lot of doors in this place, is all."

"You should think about windows instead," said Sam, echoing Dean's movements with his own.

They finished their meal, and then picked up their trays and took them to the counter and then got in line with the other men, where they trundled down the slick hall to the Day room.

*

They worked outside in the afternoon, in the chilly air and the straggled sunshine, shoveling gravel and spreading it out along the front drive with long, dull-edged hoes. The fence didn't go beyond the cream-colored sides of the hospital. The front of the hospital grounds had no borders, so there were more orderlies than usual, though just as many patients. Dean had volunteered to shovel the gravel into the wheelbarrow and haul it to various areas along the drive, and Sam thought that made sense, because Dean seemed more coordinated and alert than most of the patients. Though, truth be told, since they were taking fewer meds each day, Sam felt more alert too.

It was nice to be in the sunshine and air, watching Dean handle the shovel, watching him take off his jacket and lay it along the edge of the grass, muscles standing up beneath his short-sleeved cotton shirt as he hefted the two handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed it along. He was enjoying himself, it was easy to see. It was the way his body moved, easing out from stiffness as he hefted and pushed, his shoulders going back. Sam saw him take in a deep breath, saw him smiling to himself.

Compared to Dean as he passed out shovelfuls of gravel, the other patients seemed to be moving in slow-motion. Their hoes moved one or two pieces of gravel, their eyes were dull, their hands clumsy as though their fingers were thick and numb, picking up a handful of gravel only to put it down a mere six inches away, if that.

The orderlies watched and advised, and everyone was calm. The orderlies stood about, talking to each other sometimes, and no one seemed worried that the job wasn't getting done, that half the drive was still almost completely bald and that the other half was still speckled with grass. But the patients were smiling, and even Bellows wasn't eating anything, and it was so pleasant, that finally Sam figured it out. The point wasn't to have the patients do a great job, the point was to get them working, to make them feel productive. That's why no one had ever filed a lawsuit, because it just didn't matter.

As he hunkered down near the edge of the drive to pick bits of gravel that had fallen in the grass and put them back in the driveway, he wasn't sure, why he'd not figured it out before. His head felt much clearer today, so the decrease in meds must be the reason. The memories of the zombies and vampires and the blue man were just as certain as ever, and not a lie, no matter what Miss Windle said, but he felt sure that if someone, anyone other than Dean, were to ask him about them? He'd be able to keep his mouth shut, no problem.

After an hour or two, the patients had slowed down to moving at zero miles an hour, the clouds were starting to get riled up as the wind moved the tops of the trees with wet, smacking sounds. The backs of his legs were starting to feel the effects of all the bending and stooping, and there was even dirt under his nails. As for Dean, as he reached his arms overhead to stretch out his back, Sam realized there were sweat marks under his arms and along his spine.

Sam stood up and went over to Dean, the smudges on Dean's face coming into focus, the edge of sweat along his neck dotted with dust. One of the orderlies was saying something to him, but as Sam came close, Dean was smiling and only at Sam. This made Sam smile in return, it was almost hard not to, and he thought about how Dean had been right about the meds, and then Dean licked his bottom lip with his tongue.

Sam stopped, frozen for a minute, feeling something nice rush through him, like it was getting reading, anticipating something. Even his cock hardened, waiting for it, and he remembered the other night, when he'd been drying Dean off, there at Dean's feet, looking up. He'd been rubbing Dean's legs, and Dean's stomach had twitched as his cock, nestled among the nest of dark curly hair along his thighs, had started getting stiff.

Just then, Sam had remembered what that felt like, how it felt good if you could do something with all that hardness. How Dean's face had flushed a little, how he'd looked over Sam's head at the bathroom wall. How he'd said _enough_ , and how his mouth had thinned. How Sam's own body had stirred, but in a far-off way, from a distance, with only the whisper of warmth between his legs, the soft sigh of something building pleasantly in his stomach.

Now that feeling was back again, that curling, warm thing, but stronger, and Dean was only inches away. Fully dressed this time, but looking at him, smiling, his lips wet. And the memory of how they'd tasted when Sam had kissed him that night, to be nice, to settle Dean down, to keep him from crying too hard. Those kisses had tasted like salt, had tasted sad, and Sam didn't think Dean had really enjoyed them, for all his body had been warm and curving beneath Sam's. He felt like he needed to fix that.

"Everybody pile your tools over here," said the nearest orderly, loud in Sam's ears, "and let's see if we can actually get inside before it starts raining this time."

They got in line, and Dean was close by, so Sam could smell his sweat, and thought about how familiar it was, and again, how Dean had told them they'd known each other a long time. He could never get Dean to tell him about his brother, but maybe he would some day. Or maybe he would remember on his own. In the meantime, they followed the line, and got their pills, and palmed most of them. They sat side by side at the round table, and ate their supper, not saying much. Dean dug into the lasagna, only to make a face when it turned out to taste not as good as he'd obviously been expecting it.

"When I get out of here," he said, low, to Sam. "The first thing I'm going to do is eat some real food. Chipped Beef on Toast. Day old hash. I don't care. Just something that tastes like something. You know?"

Sam nodded, even though the idea of Dean's wanting to leave stirred him into confusion. He knew that he needed to be at the hospital, because that's where he would get better. That's what the doctor's said; Dr. Logan, especially, was always harping about it. On the other hand, being off the meds, like Dean suggested they do, was making him feel better every day. More alert and aware. Balanced. Being with Dean, every day, made him feel good. He watched Dean take a swallow of milk, watched him lick his lips. Milk was the only thing that tasted good in this place. Sam copied Dean and drank some milk, too.

In the Day room they were able to snag a table, and Dean picked out a new puzzle for them to work on. It was a picture of a castle, filled with grey bricks and puffy white clouds, and with far too many pieces to make it suitable for crazy people. As Dean set everything up, Sam looked at him.

"Doesn't this puzzle seem a little too complicated for a mental institution?" he asked, reaching for the straight-edged pieces. All green, the many, many parts of the trees around the castle. "I mean--"

"Yeah," said Dean with a soft laugh that swirled into Sam's brain, like a sweet breeze. "If you weren't crazy when you came in, you'd be crazy pretty fast working on one of these."

The look he gave Sam seemed to say that he was pleased that Sam had figured this out on his own, making Sam wonder what else he was supposed to figure out. Whether Dean smiled at him on purpose, licking his lips like he'd done because he wanted Sam to think about that, to do something about _that_. Maybe he did. There was only one way to find out.

*

Once they were locked in their room, Sam realized he felt tired. Pleasantly so, in a normal way, the way you were supposed to feel tired after working outdoors all afternoon. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, with Dean at his side, brushing his teeth, content to tip back his head and gargle, rolling his eyes at Sam, wide, to remind Sam how obnoxious he could be. This was a familiar sight, Sam realized, something he knew about Dean from before, the memory sparking along his brain like it was trying to pick other memories up as it went.

"Must you do that?" he asked, in mock irritation.

Dean just smiled around the foam in his mouth as he spit into the sink and turned on the tap to rinse it away. Then as Dean bent down, and started washing his face, Sam saw the line of grit along his neck.

"Hey," he said. "I could give you a bath, if you want." Completely ignoring the fact that he wanted to be able to crouch at Dean's feet and rub his legs with the towel. To see Dean look down at him with his eyes sparking, his mouth, lush and damp.

"No you can't," said Dean, straightening up. "You can't hold the soap, goofball."

Sam thought about this as he spit into the sink, too. "Actually, I think I've figured it out."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean dried his face on one of the towels so his words came out a bit muffled. When he pulled the towel away, his hair was standing up in glistening spikes.

"I'm only not supposed to touch the soap if I'm going to eat it," he said, reaching around Dean to dry his hands. His arm brushed against Dean's shoulder, which was warm. He wanted to press into it, but made himself wait. "But, if I'm not going to eat it, if I don't want to eat it, which I don't, then it's okay."

"Told you getting off the meds would help," said Dean, smug. He started walking out of the bathroom, but Sam stopped him with a tug on his sleeve.

"So let me give you a bath, then. You worked today, you're all sweaty." He thought that maybe it sounded like he didn't want to sleep with a sweaty Dean, but he didn't care about that. He just wanted to take care of Dean like Dean had taken care of him. Plus, running his hands across Dean's bare skin was nice, for him and for Dean. Even if Dean hadn't said anything like that, when he'd done it before, Sam had almost been able to hear Dean purring.

"It'll feel nice," he said now, watching Dean's face as Dean turned around toward him.

"I don't need a bath," said Dean. "If I do, I can give myself one."

"It'll be okay," said Sam, not sure why Dean was being so reluctant. "It'll help you sleep better."

He turned and bent along side the tub, turning on both tabs full bore. As he put the rubber stopper in the drain, he could hear Dean shifting behind him, but it didn't sound like Dean was taking off his clothes. He looked up. Yes, he was at Dean's feet, where he'd thought about being earlier, but Dean wasn't smiling. His eyes looked a little dark, hooded beneath his eyebrows, and he wasn't smiling.

"Please?" asked Sam, over the thunder of the water coming from the tap. "You've been doing everything for me, let me--" he stopped a minute, thinking of how to phrase it. "You can't be the only one doing all the helping, the nice things." He paused again and then gathered his breath. "It'll make me feel like I'm getting better. Dr. Logan said that part of getting better was being able to think about someone else, to help them, and--"

"Okay, oaky," said Dean, almost throwing up his hands as he gave in. "Jesus, _okay_ already." He started peeling off his pants as he toed off his shoes and socks, like he was eager in spite of the edge to his voice. "Then I'll give you one."

"No," said Sam. He tested the temperature of the water with his hand. "I didn't work very hard. You did. This is for you."

He turned his head away from the tub and saw the last of the expression on Dean's face before he pulled his shirt over his head. There'd been something wide around his eyes, like surprise, and pleasure, like he wanted what Sam was offering only he didn't want to admit it. Stubborn, that's what Dean was.

He watched the tub fill the rest of the way, which, given the height of the drain, wasn't very far, then stood up and turned off the taps, reaching for the soap along the sink and the washcloth on the towel rack. Dean looked a little chilly, with his bare feet on the bathroom tile, his shoulders curled forward like he was cold. And yes, there were little goose bumps along his shoulders. Sam touched one and thought about how nice the bath would feel. Even though it wasn't as warm as it could be, there was still a little steam rising up in the air above the surface.

Dean drew away from his hand a little bit, but got in the tub without pushing Sam out of the way. He wasn't looking at Sam as he did this, and Sam tried not to stare, but his eyes followed the length of Dean's ribs, which glittered with dirt and sweat, and the hollow where the skin dipped in around his hip. Dean's cock seemed interested in the warm water at any rate, dark against the pale of Dean's thighs. Dean made a low sound as he lowered himself into the water, his hands along the sides of the tub.

Sam knelt down, getting the washcloth wet, dipping the soap, and lathering it up in his hands. He started washing Dean's neck, wrapping the soapy cloth along the curve of Dean's neck as the water streaked down his back, leaving thin, white trails along his spine. Dean wasn't looking at him, and was holding himself up, hands still gripping the edges of the tub like he didn't quite like it. But Sam didn't let that stop him, he ran the cloth along Dean's arms, and under his arms, dipping it into the water as often as he could, moving the soap with his other hand until the back of Dean's upper body was sheened in white.

He let the soap melt down Dean's back, and shifted on his haunches till he was facing Dean's front, lathering up the cloth and raising it to scrub along the front of Dean's neck, and down his chest. That's when he saw Dean's eyelids fluttering, almost half shut, his mouth softly open; he didn't even know how tired he was, how relaxing this was. But his body would know, and would finally get the message to his brain, if Sam didn't screw it up and start talking like he wanted to.

 _Sometimes_ , he remembered a voice saying, _it's okay to shut up, Sam_. It might have been his brother's voice, it was certainly different than the other voice. But it was kind, even though it sounded mean, because it felt like there was affection in it. And truth. So Sam listened to it and clamped his mouth shut, and scrubbed at Dean's chest and his sides, dipping a bit lower, till he could feel the curve of Dean's hip beneath the cloth, and this seemed to bring Dean to life.

"Could you, um, just wash my hair instead?" This said low, guttural, like Dean could barely get his throat working.

Sam smiled but obliged, working the soap through Dean's hair, bringing up the washcloth, only slightly soapy, to wring out over the top of Dean's head, sending a little waterfall running down over his head and his ears, down his back, and finally Dean sighed.

"That was--do that again, okay?"

Sam did it several times, till the soap was rinsed away, and the water was getting cold. Sam wrung the washcloth out over Dean's shoulders, and his front, using his hands to scoop more water, till finally Dean opened his eyes.

"Put a fork in me," he said, half smiling. "Man. I could sleep right here."

Just to tease him, Sam reached down, ignoring Dean's legs as they stiffened against his arm, and pulled out the plug. The water rushed past Dean's body to get down the drain, and Dean stood up fast. A little too fast, unsteady as the blood obviously couldn't keep up. Sam grasped his arm to steady him, and Dean's look of thanks was again hooded, but warmer now, like it couldn't quite make a joke of it or brush it off. Like Dean needed this, needed exactly what Sam had given him.

"Towel," said Dean, stepping out of the tub, not saying _please_. Sam didn't care. He pulled the towel from off the rack and started rubbing Dean's hair and his neck and his shoulders. At one point, Dean tried to reach for the towel but Sam batted his hand away.

"Just let me do this," he said, continuing on. But he made it businesslike, so as not to make Dean stiffen up and draw away. He wanted Dean to relax, so he handed Dean the towel and went to get their p.j.'s. When he got back to the bathroom, the warmth of the bathwater was already dissipating, and Dean seemed to shiver as he finished drying himself off and put on the p.j.'s. Sam put his on as well, and took their dirty clothes and put them by the door where the orderly could get them in the morning.

Outside in the hallway, the chime sounded, and Sam looked at Dean. The lights would go off in a minute or two, but, like he'd told Dean before, he wasn't going to do something that wasn't wanted. If Dean didn't say _yes_ because he didn't understand, then Sam would ask him out loud if he could sleep with Dean. After that, with as relaxed as Dean was and as wound up as Sam felt, who knew what cool things could happen.

"Okay," said Dean, with a little smile, "just don't hog all the covers like you do. Like you _always_ do." This little bit of mock drama and irritation was accompanied by a sweep of Dean's arm, but as Sam moved close, Dean didn't move away. "And no snoring either."

"I don't snore," said Sam, climbing into the bed as Dean got the pillow and blanket from the other bed. "You snore."

"Do not."

"Do."

" _Not_."

" _Do_."

It was comfortable and familiar and Sam liked to watch Dean slide into bed because that felt safe and normal and right. Just right. It was hard to put into words, but then, obeying the voice from earlier, he didn't have to. Just wait until the lights went out, which they did, making it seem like the temperature in the room dropped several degrees very quickly. He moved a little towards Dean, shy for a minute until he realized how warm Dean was. Then he plastered himself up and down along Dean's side, pushing until Sam heard a sigh in the darkness and felt Dean lift his arm so Sam could scoot even closer and put his head on Dean's shoulder.

Which is where he'd wanted to be all day. This was the best part of his day, this moment right here.

By Dean's breathing he could tell Dean was relaxing into sleep, so it might be alright if he just reached out his hand and touched. Yes, it might be alright if he just stroked his hand like this. Yes. He reached across Dean and petted his arm, slowly, up and down, up and down, liking the slight friction of his hand against the cotton cloth. Liking the faint sound Dean made, like he didn't realize he was doing it. Then he moved his hand up to Dean's shoulder, and followed the path down the side of his chest, clear like it had been drawn out for him. Dean's muscles over his ribs expanded and contracted in an even, assuring rhythm.

Another sigh from Dean. "Wha're you doing, Sam?"

"Helping you fall asleep," said Sam. Which was partly true, because if that's what this did, then fine. Then he amended that to include anything else that might happen. "Taking care of you. Like you do for me."

"I'm good," said Dean, but it came out a mumble as he raised his hand and tried to push Sam's hand away. Sam felt that, let his hand be pushed, and continued petting, even and slow, across Dean's ribs, across his chest.

Then Dean said, "Hey, now," and pushed again, and as Sam's hand moved down Dean's body, he felt the slight dip of Dean's stomach with his fingers, and, along the outside edge of his palm, the heat and hardness from Dean's groin.

As Sam tucked his hand up, out of the way, flattening it across Dean's chest muscles, Dean stiffened a bit, his whole body a little tighter along the length of Sam's body, and Sam felt Dean's head turn on the pillow. He looked up and saw that Dean was looking at right him in the near dark, the light from the window shining across Dean's eyes.

"I'm all relaxed and stuff. That's all."

"I could relax you more," said Sam. He thought he remembered how it could feel to be that relaxed, to take the hardness that the body could make and turn it into something soft and warm and sleepy. And nice. So very nice.

"I don't--" said Dean. Then he stopped. "No, okay? Just no."

"What's wrong with it?" asked Sam. "Here you are. Here _we_ are. So why not?"

"You're my--" And then he stopped again, something blocking the rest of his words as if with all the force of a granite dam.

"I'm your Sam," said Sam, finishing Dean's sentence for him. He thought about the little dip beside Dean's mouth that formed when he was thinking and thought nobody was watching. Or when he was trying not to smile because he thought somebody was. Sam leaned in and cupped his hand around Dean's face, pulling it close. He didn't stop to think about it, just leaned in and flicked out his tongue to lick it. Landed pretty close, and tasted Dean, felt his mouth open.

"Sam, what the _hell_."

"I'm taking care of you, Dean," said Sam.

"Sam," said Dean. "Before we ended up in the loony bin, we liked girls. I know you don't remember that, but we did."

"Fine," said Sam, pushing closer, and feeling Dean not pull away, at least not much, was not deterred. "But I like you now." And realized it was true. He had vague images of girls, their soft lines and liquid eyes. And breasts, yes he remembered those. But only in a faceless, nameless way. They were nothing like what he had next to him now, angular and hard, muscles pushing strength outward with every move they made. "I like _you_."

He breathed the last word with kisses, and curved in to touch the side of Dean's mouth with his, to flick his tongue again, to taste the moistness of Dean's mouth, opening. Realized he was shaking pretty hard now, hard himself, his head spinning a little as sharp currents started to build up everywhere.

It was overwhelming, because for as long as he could remember, not very long, all he'd felt was numbness. Or fear. Now he had something new to feel, and while it had seemed a good idea at the time, now he didn't know what to do with it. If he couldn't let it all go, if he couldn't spread it all over Dean, it might build up inside of him and maybe it would become like acid and eat him from the inside out. Which would hurt, hurt so badly, maybe he would cry, and then they would--

With a sharp sound in his throat, Sam pushed away and tried to sit up, but his legs were trapped among Dean's legs, and his arm was shaking so much it wouldn't quite support his weight. All he could do was push back, till his spine was flat against the cold wall. The sheets fell away, and the blanket, leaving him shivering in the chilly air, the darkness coming down like a cloak. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of those unproductive things Dr. Logan warned against. Like waiting in a dark hallway with a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. Where had he learned to shoot a gun? And why the hell was he chasing something so fucking scary that he not only wanted to pee himself over, but that he couldn't bring himself to give a name to?

Someone was whispering in the dark, the voice coming closer, and there were hands on his shoulders, soft and warm. Solid. Sam made himself open his eyes because of course you had to watch where the monsters were coming from. But it wasn't a monster. It was Dean, bending close, pulling Sam away from the wall, his mouth moving, sounds that were gentle reaching out to Sam. He could feel his own heart thudding in his veins, the sweat cooling fast along the back of his neck. Dean's skin was warm.

"Sam," said Dean. "You okay? Here. Put your head back on the pillow. Put your--here." He moved Sam bodily lifting him for a second, and then back down, flat on the mattress. Hovered over Sam. "What happened there?" he asked. "You kind of, uh, freaked out."

Sam closed his eyes for a second, and swallowed, trying to breathe slow. "I just wanted to touch you, and have you touch me," he said, low. "It was too much, and I was afraid you wouldn't, and then, I would get eaten by acid. From the inside." He covered his face with his hand, his palm almost too hot, feeling incredibly stupid, hearing how bizarre the words sounded, knowing he couldn't explain himself more than that.

"Acid?" Dean's voice rose.

"I know," said Sam, the words tumbling out of him like bitter pellets. "I might be crazy, I get that. Maybe I should go back on the pills, you know? Maybe Dr. Logan is right, maybe that'll help. Maybe I won't be so weird then. Maybe when you go away--"

"Sam," said Dean. He pushed Sam's hand away, his hand covering the side of Sam's face, warm and still. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I won't leave you behind. Besides, you don't need those stupid pills. Not when you're more yourself when you're not on them. And you have me, so you don't need those."

Sam could feel Dean's breath stirring, somewhere close, but he didn't want to open his eyes and look. Dean's body was warm and close and still, and he didn't want to make it go away, didn't want Dean to push him away again. But he had to know.

"Where is it? In your head?" Dean's fingers pressed into Sam's scalp, but gently.

"No," said Sam. His lips felt thick. "It's here, something all built up and pushing and behind that there's this wall of acid--" His voice actually quavered as he said this. It was still there, he could feel it, and it was freaking him out because it was going to start _eating_ him--

He reached up his hand to touch Dean's hand, squeezing hard, like it was a lifeline.

Dean's whole body twitched at the touch of Sam's hand. He seemed to pause, then pulled Sam's hand down to rest against his chest.

"I'll get rid of it," said Dean. Like he'd made up his mind to do it and that was that.

Before he could draw another breath, Dean had moved, his thighs, dense and muscled, his chest, pressing on Sam, hands on either side of Sam's face. Without preamble, kissing Sam, his mouth a little salty, damp, light kisses on Sam's mouth. Sam sighed, and Dean's hand reached down between Sam's legs.

"This is what you need, right?" he heard Dean ask. Sam nodded, feeling the acid shoot out of his body, his mind's eye seeing the streaks, feeling the clean spaces left behind. Felt Dean's hand on his cock, outside of his p.j.'s and boxers, felt the shift of Dean's body so that his thigh was between Sam's legs. "I'll do this for you," said Dean, "and then we'll sleep. No more acid, okay? It'll be all gone."

He thought he might tell Dean that the acid was leaving, had left, that even the notion of it being an issue was already a hazy, distant idea that didn't bother him now, but as Dean moved his hand up Sam's stomach and slipped it next to his skin, he locked the thought away. He didn't want Dean to stop, and if he told him the truth, Dean would. It was better this way, better to have Dean's hand on him, stroking him slowly. Fingers curving around his cock and pulling, the angle strange and almost backward, but the awkwardness of it felt good, a little jerky, Dean's movements unexpected and startling as the good heat started to build in Sam's stomach and spread everywhere. _Everywhere_.

Dean rested his head on Sam's shoulder, Sam could feel the muscles in Dean's arm as it moved across his stomach, bunching with each stroke. Felt Dean's breath, and sank into that, into the sparks and friction coming up from his groin, moisture building, Dean's hot mouth on his neck. Stroke, and stroke, and _stroke_ , Dean's fingers gripping his cock and sliding up and down, and Dean pulling him, little flicks of his thumb, and Sam leaned his head down to find Dean's mouth with his. Heard the small utter of protest, and swallowed that, tasting Dean, and all at once, there was a little explosion in his head, and heat pouring out of his cock. Like jets of heat.

If he remembered women and their softness, he'd forgotten _this_ , the whiteness everywhere, and it was a little like acid, only when it burned, it burned away clean and left something good behind. Something boneless, like tumbling, and when he could take a breath, Dean was leaving soft pets along his limp cock, and pulling up Sam's boxers and his p.j.'s, putting everything back into place.

Sam's head felt like it weighed as much as his whole body, but he moved it down till it was resting on Dean's shoulder, where he liked it to be. Dean curved his arm around Sam and pulled them close, their bodies like one warm line under the covers.

"Better?" asked Dean.

"Uh." It was all Sam could manage. He felt like he'd been washed clean, inside and out. "Now you," he said, thinking if he could just lift his head, he could take care of Dean much better. Now that he knew what it all meant. "Your turn."

"Don't worry about that," said Dean. Firm.

Under Sam's arm, Dean's stomach tightened. He pushed Sam's away in the dark, and Sam had to let it, because he had absolutely no energy, just the pulsing warmth in his stomach and the easy silence in his head. He pulled his leg up and over Dean's thighs, and Dean let it stay there, like he liked the weight of it, and then he settled his arm over Dean's stomach, where he could feel the tension settle out of it.

"Is all the acid gone?" asked Dean now as the air became still around them, the dark quiet.

"Yeah," Sam said, barely managing this. "Like it never was. You dissolved it, Dean. All of it."

He heard Dean give a little huff in his throat, almost like laughter, patting Sam with the flat of his hand, but lazy, like Dean was almost asleep himself. Sam let himself settle into sleep, thinking that he would make it Dean's turn next time, because everyone deserved to feel this boneless, this good. Acid free and sleepy and calm. Dean needed it too, only he probably didn't realize it. Like Sam hadn't. Till Dean showed him. His Dean.

 

Chapter 13

When Dean woke up, Sam was flung across him like a blanket, his arms and legs everywhere, as if, since the bed was his (even if it was really Dean's), then by rights everything in the bed was also his. Hence Dean was now Sam's blanket. That was alright; if it wasn't the millionth time this had happened, then it was the hundred-thousandth, and part and parcel of sleeping with Sam. He was used to that.

What he wasn't used to was the smell of Sam on his hands. Or the memory of Sam's cock pulsing between his fingers.

Yes, he'd slept with Sam before, or in the other bed across from Sam's bed, on the road, in so many motels he'd lost count. During nights gone too lonely, and aftermaths of hunts gone almost wrong and barely right, pretending to sleep in silence too cracked to bear. Wrecked from the day and needing it. And yes, either him or Sam would slink into the bathroom, or stay in their own beds to take themselves into their own hands, to see who could be more quiet and invisible about it. Racing with each other to see who would come first. And then after, smelling the dim salt and sweat lingering in the air, and then sleep.

And now, as he woke up, and poked Sam to let him up, he could smell the traces of sex and sweat on his hands and on the sheets, a little, and then, on Sam, sleepy and sprawled like he was, eyes opening. But he was smiling at Dean, a nice gleam in his eyes, relaxed. Getting up and following Dean into the bathroom like it was any day. Which it was, the fact that Dean had jacked his brother off the night before, notwithstanding.

As they went through their morning routine and got in line for breakfast, it stayed with Dean. The texture of Sam in the night, pressing close, shivering with pleasure, his hair, tangling in Dean's mouth as Sam pressed under Dean's chin, sweet, like it was scented with something, but really, smelling like Sam always did. Only up close.

And Sam's hands, on Dean, not quite pawing, but reaching. Desperate for something to hold on to. Dean imagined that it was the decrease in the meds, that had taken something away from Sam, that annoying numb feeling, and left a blankness behind. A good blankness, but still, empty and different and what did you do with that. Well, if you were Sam, you reached out to see what your hands could get to fill it.

Last night the thing he had reached for had been Dean. Dean and Sam, under the covers, creating a warmth between their bodies, tracing that heat with salt and sweat. Doing what brothers should never do. Besides the fact that what he'd done had helped Sam, it should never have happened in the first place. Dean knew that and knew that his distaste was the right way to feel, and he intended to feel that way forever.

That was it, but his brain refused to turn it off.

It had been one thing that first time when Sam had kissed him after Dean got back from Treatment. Dean had been wrung out and his head had ached and his whole body had been screaming through every nerve. The Treatment had been one, long, black thing, surrounding him on all sides. In contrast, there was Sam and his hands and his mouth, sweet and wide. Sam had kissed him and petted him and tried to soothe him into sleep. And Dean had reached out, grabbing the first thing that had touched him in a way that felt good.

So okay, once was fine, he needed it, hadn't been aware enough to say _no_. Anyone would have done the same.

But last night had been the second time. And about that, he could make no excuses, because there was no excuse for the fluttering pulse in his stomach when Sam had said _your turn_.

They ate breakfast together, like everything was normal, palming their pills, and drinking their milk while Sam made a face over the pancakes that were as hard as a rock. One bad thing about getting off the pills was that the food tasted horrible and that became more obvious with every meal. But with Sam still having weird reactions to things, thinking he was being eaten inside by acid--well, the meds weren't out of his system yet. And he'd been taking more meds than Dean. Dean would just have to be patient.

Work therapy consisted of, of all things, sorting paper for recycling in the loading dock. Greer took them, of course, it seemed that Greer was better at handling large groups of loonies in open, uncontrolled spaces. Dean noticed that Bellows wasn't with them. Maybe he would eat the paper, though how that could be worse than trying to gnaw on the TV, Dean didn't know.

Greer showed them the piles of paper in boxes, and how to sort them into different bins. The sun wasn't really shining, but the loading dock was out of the wind, so it was almost pleasant to work there, handling paper, their low voices bouncing off the wall easy and slow, like there was no where for them to be and all day to get there.

Dean waited for Sam to get his usual expression, the one that said how unfair this all was and wasn't there a law against slave labor? The hospital could get money for the recycled goods, and shouldn't they be paying the patients? But it never came. Sam was as relaxed as Dean could remember him being in the hospital, his shoulders in a straight line, his hands moving and sorting, or pushing his hair out of his eyes, as he smiled at Dean. And while he wasn't humming, he seemed happy. Well, getting jacked off always made Dean feel good, there was no reason it shouldn't do the same for Sam.

Except that last night, when Sam had been reaching for Dean. He shouldn't have needed Dean but the acid feeling he described could have been some kind of build-up in his system, and now that the meds were going out, his sex drive was kicking in. If he wasn't able to remember that ever happening before, sure, it would be overwhelming.

But Sam had reached towards Dean like he didn't know this, like he thought the source of the tension inside him was _Dean_ , somehow. Like Dean was the only answer. Since Dean was Sam's source of everything else, companionship, advice, comfort, it almost made sense.

Sam had shoved away Dean's statement about them liking girls, saying that he liked Dean now. Fine. He'd always liked Dean, loved him as a brother. But Dean didn't think Sam had meant it the way Sam normally would. Not the way his voice had been full of heat, not the way he'd pressed close. Not the way he'd sighed when Dean had put his hand on Sam's cock, and touched his brother like he'd only ever touched himself.

It had to stop, it really did. It had gone on far enough, and while he would have been able to explain the first kiss, that one night--and maybe, maybe he might be able to explain away last night, anything else would be out of the question. He'd allowed it because Sam was scared, couldn't explain what the acid was. He'd allowed it because Sam had been hard as a rock, pushing against Dean's hip, hard as an iron bar, and hot like he'd just come out of a forge. You couldn't ignore that. You couldn't.

Somewhere, in a deep part of his head, banked beneath some shadowed heaviness, he could remember the way his stomach had coiled up and spread out as his hand had curled around Sam's cock, the moisture springing up under his fingers. Sam's hair against his neck as Sam had made himself small somehow. The gratifying tension and the balance as they breathed together, and he made Sam feel good. And then finally, as he felt the blood pumping through Sam, and the come, hot strings over his knuckles, Sam had looked up. Into his eyes, maybe not even realizing he was doing it. The surprise and the fire there and that sound Sam had made, deep in his throat. Dean'd liked that sound, worth a million gold stars, satisfying and soothing all at once. And so wrong. So terribly wrong.

It couldn't happen again, even if it was for Sam. It had always been for Sam, anyway, but it had to stop. Because, come the day, and come it would, Sam would remember. Dean could shrug off a kiss or two, could imagine Sam might not even remember some of it, or think that he'd imagined the rest of it.

But if it continued, and Sam did remember, remember Dean's hands between his legs and knew it for truth, then that would kill what they had between them. That brother bond, something that lasted, that he counted on, he didn't want to break that. Nor did he want to see the expression on Sam's face when he confronted Dean, the disgusted glare, the scathing comments. It would be alright, maybe, if Sam hit him then, but Dean knew he couldn't handle the _look_. The patented Sam look that told the world that whatever he was looking at was lower than pond scum. Dean never wanted that look aimed at him. He would rather die.

*

In art therapy that afternoon, Miss Windle was waiting for them in the window-lined room, just like she had never left, dressed in the same brown and white like a winter wren, placing them at their tables, standing in the middle of the room like an expectant thing, hands folded pertly in front of her. The smell of chalk floated heavily on the damp air, but it smelled familiar. Like a classroom. Sam knew he'd been in lots of those.

"Now boys, today, I want you to draw me a tree. Doesn't matter what kind of tree, any kind of tree. I'll walk around and help you, and then we'll talk about it. Now get going!"

Sam didn't let the scratchy edge to her voice get to him as he walked to one of the tables with Dean. He felt like he'd been rocked to sleep in a hammock last night, could still hear Dean's breath in his ear as he took all the acid out of Sam's body and replaced it with something else, a drowsy, warm feeling. He could barely remember falling asleep, only that he had, safe and easy, everything wiped out but the blackness like velvet, and Dean's heart thumping evenly beneath Sam's cheek.

He felt better than he could remember feeling, ever. And the feeling had lasted all day, from the time he'd gotten up, through work therapy, and lunch, right up to now. It showed signs of lasting forever. And the knowledge that when it went away, even a little bit, there was Dean. At his side. Whose hands could work freaking magic. In forgetting everything else, Sam knew he'd never forget that.

Beside, him, Dean started to draw his tree studiously. Not really looking away from Sam, but not looking at him, like he'd been doing all day. Standing a little way off, more than normal, chalk in one hand, and the fingers of his other hand splayed against his leg, as if in concentration. Sam knew he should be more attentive, especially since Dean hadn't wanted any of what he'd handed out last night for himself. As if that sort of pleasure were too good for the likes of him, as if he didn't actually _deserve_ it. Which he did, Sam knew that much.

Sam picked up some black chalk, and without even wanting to taste it, started to draw the outlines of his tree. It was a black tree, as all the trees in his memory were. He'd heard about this tree, and then remembered seeing it. Remembered thinking, at the time, that it was the creepiest tree he'd ever seen.

He'd mentioned the tree to Dr. Logan once--only once--and she had latched on to that like a lamprey onto a shark's back. She'd sucked everything out about it that Sam had to give her, and since back then he'd only wanted to please her (this was before he'd bitten Dr. Baylor), he'd told her about the house, and the tree that moved, that it had hands, that his dad had given him over to his brother to carry out of the burning house, how his mom had died, everything. Everything which he realized now as too much. Some secrets should stay secrets. And hence, he really shouldn't be drawing this particular tree.

He should copy Dean's tree, which was a long, straight, red and ochre colored tree, tall, and broad at the base, with furred leaves at the top. There were lots of colors in Dean's picture, blue sky, green leaves, lots of energy. But this black tree that Sam's fingers insisted on drawing, it was the only tree in Sam's memory. He knew the trees in the yard, along the fence line, had walked under them and around them, since being with Dean, he'd gotten to go outside several times. He knew there were other trees. But this tree--this one--this was the only tree he really knew. So he drew it.

After a while, Miss Windle started walking around the room, her hands in the pockets of her apron; Sam could see the fist she made around a piece of chalk. He kept drawing while he waited for her to get to their table, but she was taking her sweet time, stopping and talking to the other patients. Taking out the piece of chalk to make marks, to make her point.

Finally, she got to their table, and motioned for Dean to stop drawing so she could look at his tree. Dean did this, not looking at Sam. He turned the paper so she could see it, and Sam watched her nodding at it.

"This is a nice redwood, Dean. Did you realize that the tree represents how you see yourself?"

Dean seemed to snort at this. "I'm not a redwood."

"Why not?" asked Miss Windle, reasonably. "Don't you think it a positive reflection that you think of yourself as a tall, strong, graceful tree like this?"

Now Dean did look at Sam, almost rolling his eyes, but Sam could kind of see what she was saying. He knew what a redwood was, how they grew in old growth forests in California, and lasted a thousand years, sometimes even longer, sinking their roots in deep. That wasn't a bad comparison to make about Dean, but the implication of it hit him. If the tree represented the artist, then he was in big trouble.

Miss Windle moved to Sam's edge of the table, and motioned for him to turn his picture around so she could see it. He'd only used black chalk, now stark and smudged against the white, and the tree looked like it was writhing on its trunk, twisting in an invisible wind, with clawed arms for branches as it reached for something, desperate and unwholesome. In about a second, perhaps even less, it was going to get bad. Heat built up in his armpits as he put his black chalk down and turned the picture, and then Miss Windle saw it all. Everything. All in one, narrow-eyed glance.

"Sam," she said, looking at him. She tapped her chalk on the edge of the table to make him pay attention. "You were supposed to draw a real tree."

"This is a real tree," he said. "I drew it from memory." His heart started beating, hard.

"Sam," she said. Now she pointed the chalk at him. "Don't play games, this doesn't look anything like a real tree."

"It _is_ ," Sam insisted, swallowing. Dean was watching, the whole room was watching. "It's the tree that used to grow by our house, in the yard. It caught fire when the house burned. When my mother died, when she--"

"Sam!" Now Miss Windle's eyes were sparking, her mouth a firm line. "You have been told time and time again not to make things up, and if you're having trouble realizing what is reality and what is not, then you do not belong in art therapy. Do you understand me?"

Oh, he understood alright. Being in art therapy was part of being with Dean. As was being in Group, or working outside, or in Laundry. The Day room, and the speed puzzles, all of it had to do with the privilege of being with Dean. But if he didn't belong in art therapy, then maybe Dr. Logan would hear about it and determine that he didn't belong anywhere else either, that, perhaps, he didn't belong with Dean. He opened his mouth, wordless, his breath coming in gasps. His eyes grew hot, he wanted to start shrieking at the thought of it.

They'd always said, be true, be honest, and you will get better, it's the only way. Only now, if he did that, they'd take his Dean away from him--was he supposed to lie? Frantic, he looked at Dean, and realized suddenly how pale Dean was, there were circles under his eyes, and his hair, normally lush and shiny, was pressed down on one side like he'd forgotten to comb it. Something was bothering Dean, only Sam didn't know what. Then, slowly, Dean shook his head, his eyes always on Sam, glinting green, like stones under water. Sam gulped down a breath and made himself think of that. Of cool green stones exactly the color of Dean's eyes.

He wanted to stay thinking that way, only Miss Windle tapped her chalk on the table so loud she broke it. Chalk spun in pieces across the dull surface. "Sam," she said. Her voice snapped like a trap. "I need an answer from you right now. Did you make this tree up?"

If he said he made it up, then he was admitting the tree was a lie, and that all the memories associated with it were a lie, too. Which they weren't. But if he said it was real, then they would take him away, and slap him in a room alone, and never, ever again, would he be able to sleep with Dean. And if he had to give that up, even if Dean never touched him again, if he couldn't be with Dean when he fell asleep, he knew he would die.

Dean was waiting, and Miss Windle was waiting, and the room full of patients, almost perfectly quiet, waited.

"It's not a real tree," he said, swallowing. "Maybe it's a fake one, but I meant it to be real." Now he was confusing himself, and this was reflected in the confusion in Miss Windle's face. He had to say something, and fast, or they were going to come and take him away. "I meant it to be real, but maybe the tree is me." He pointed at the drawing, his fingers black with chalk, and realized his hand was shaking. "I guess that's how I feel inside."

Only that was a pure lie, because up till a minute ago, he'd felt like something entirely different, something laced through by a soft blue breeze, something that might be represented by an entirely different tree. He thought fast, and came up with the only tree he knew. "I wish I'd drawn a willow," he said. "But I couldn't make it work, somehow."

All lies. Pure lies. All jumbled up together with truth, so mixed up that if she started picking at it, she'd realized how messed up he was. And then she'd press the button and it'd be all over.

"Hmmmm," she said, looking at the drawing. "I can see you're having a hard time today, Sam, but at least you're trying. Next time we have art therapy, if you don't understand the instructions, you should ask for help , you realize that?"

It wasn't, Sam knew, not when the help would come with a price like Miss Windle would put on it.

A chime sounded in the hallway, and art therapy was over. Everyone got in line like nothing had happened, leaving their drawings on the various tables with as much casualness as if they didn't realize that the trees represented who they were, and without any concern that Miss Windle could use that information against them, and was, even now, collecting all the drawings for their files.

Sam was shaking so hard his teeth were clacking together, and Dean's face, his brows drawn together, and the hand on Sam's arm, didn't help. He had to stop on the way out of the room to kneel down and pull a trashcan up close. Fast, so he could puke in it, his chin tucked down, his eyes watering so hard he knew he was crying, but he couldn't stop it. Dean stood close by, not touching him, but close enough so that Sam knew he was there. And Miss Windle as well, _tsk tsking_ , and picking up the phone to call the janitor to clean up the mess. Now that her class was over, she didn't care what happened to him.

Finally, he was able to sit back and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and his eyes, letting Dean's hands guide him to standing, his knees rolling together like they had no strength to be straight. The janitor's cart was coming, and there was an orderly standing by, waiting. He didn't care either.

But Dean did. His face was white as he looked at Sam, his eyes enormous and dark.

"We need to get you guys to supper," said the orderly, without impatience, but firmly. He had a schedule to keep.

Sam stuck out his chin, wishing he could punch someone in the face. Not Dean, no, and maybe not the orderly. It should be Miss Windle, but she was way shorter, and a woman besides. Not to mention it would solve nothing. But he needed to say something to Dean, to let him know it was okay, that Sam was okay. He felt better now that it was over, it had just been in that moment, this awful, lumbering dread about what she would _say_ \--

The janitor's cart was there, all stacked with cleaning supplies, and the orderly made them start walking. Dean stayed close as they caught up with the line for supper. When they were in it, when Sam's teeth weren't clicking together, he tugged on Dean's sleeve.

"I'm not a fucking willow tree," he said. "It was just the only tree I could think of, okay?"

The line moved forward a little, and Dean turned to look at him, his face clearing, tilting his head back as if appraising Sam. The little dimple in the corner of his mouth appeared as Dean seemed to struggle with not laughing. "I think it suits you, Sam," he said, his eyes dancing. "Even if it is a _girly_ sort of tree." Then he looked away.

For a second, Sam's mouth fell open, blinking at this. Then he realized Dean was joking because that's what Dean _did_. He did that, when the going was rocky or emotional, and he _knew_ that, all of a sudden. Sam said the next thing that came to his mind, letting his mouth go with what his gut was telling him, that this was how it was between them, this funny, stupid, thing--

"I'm not a girl, you jerk," he said, giving Dean a taste of his elbow.

It turned out to be the right thing to say. Dean turned and smiled wide. "Did you just call me a jerk?" he asked. He didn't wait for an answer, making the whole line wait as he stopped and looked up at Sam, with this bright light streaming from his eyes. "You used to, you know. All the time."

"And what'd you call me?" Sam wanted to know. He moved when the line moved, but his attention was on Dean, only on Dean, as he watched for more of that brilliant smile.

Dean stopped for the pill lady, and Sam did too, taking the pills in his palm easily, not doubting Dean at all about this anymore. Not when he felt this good. Then Dean grabbed two trays and handed one to Sam.

Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at Sam, the dimple at the corner of his mouth growing like a small secret. "You would call me a jerk," he said. "And then I would call you a bitch. It was our way of--" Dean stopped for a minute, like he'd lost his way watching the lady behind the counter slop out some spaghetti and meatballs on the tray, cottage cheese spilling over into the peaches. "Our way of saying hello, I guess." His voice grew a little soft, and he looked up at Sam, wanting him to understand. Or to remember.

Sam couldn't do either, not yet, but he tucked it away for later. Wanting to remember the connectedness he felt now. Wanting more of it. Wanting to stay with Dean.

"It'll come to me," said Sam as they sat down at one of the tables. "I'll keep remembering more and more, I promise."

Dean smiled, but there was something in his eyes that looked a little bleak, just then. Sam wondered if when he remembered everything else, he would understand what that look meant. Until then, he would be with Dean, he would do everything that Dean said. He would get better, and then they would both get out of the hospital. Together.

*

By the time supper was over, and after another evening spent in the game room, Dean was glad to get back to the room, even though there was nothing to do, and nothing to look at. At least there, with the door closed and locked, there was almost no noise, just the running water while Sam was in the bathroom, and the clang of a pipe from somewhere behind the walls.

He was tired, but like Sam had promised, the feeling from Treatment had worn off, and it had, leaving him feeling washed out a little, but ready. If he could get a decent meal, get some sunshine, some open road, he'd be fine. He thought about that, him and Sam and the Impala, and figured that if the drugs were out of his system, they'd soon be out of Sam's. He needed to figure out a way to get them out, figure out how far it was to the car impound in Joliet. How to get to the keys from the office. And his necklace.

Sam came out, brushing his teeth as he walked, trying to talk around the foam. "You were smiling, I saw you."

"Oh, yeah?" asked Dean, mock anger lacing his voice. "What are you, a peeping Sam?"

It was nonsense, but it felt good. He was going to get Sam back, _his_ Sam, he could feel traces of it even now. And Sam had called him a jerk today, just like the old days, which was a good thing. He'd promised to keep remembering stuff, too, which could be a bad thing, if Dean couldn't keep it together because he couldn't resist Sam's hands on him, his whispered begging in the dark.

Sam went back into the bathroom to spit in the sink and rinse out his brush. Dean brushed his teeth as well, and took a swallow of water. "Any headaches?" he asked, as he came out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He'd had one earlier, and whether it was from Treatment or going off the meds, he didn't know. It was always good to check.

Sam shook his head as he sat on the edge of the bed and took off his sneakers and socks. "When we went outside, we didn't really work that hard today," he said, sounding sorry.

"So?"

Standing there at the end of the bed, Dean toed off his sneakers and socks. His body told him that it wouldn't be long before the lights out chime and he didn't want to be stumbling around in the dark.

"I don't need a bath," said Sam. Sam's shoulders slumped, and he looked as dejected as a ten-year old being told to stay inside on a rainy day.

"I could--" started Dean, then he stopped. He'd been about to offer one anyway, though Sam was a fully grown man As for making sure Sam was alright, he could do that just by looking at him, he didn't need to scrub his back for him too. Did he? "I don't need one either," he said, making it okay that way. "If it stops raining, we'll work outside tomorrow, doing something harder than sorting paper, you bet."

He climbed into the bed, taking the wall this time, pulling the covers up, hearing the far away click of lights going out down the hall and coming close. Sam stood there and looked at him, ready for bed, his mouth a thin, desperate line. The other bed was wide open, and in spite of Dean saying it was always okay, Sam was going to wait to be asked. Like a vampire. A cuddle vampire, not cuddling until Dean let him in.

Trying not to roll his eyes, Dean flipped the covers back just as the lights went out. Telling himself that this was getting old, of course it was, old and silly and not right. Not for two brothers, even ones who'd spent most of their lives living in each other's back pockets. At the same time, when Sam slid into the bed next to him, Dean pulled up the cover and the sheet, and pulled Sam against him, it felt good. Sam was warm and heavy and still, there in his arms. He scooted low and tucked his head under Dean's chin. Hair got in Dean's mouth, Dean spat it out with his lips and sighed. He had Sam, and everything else he would figure out as he went along.

Then he realized that Sam was shaking. "Hey, Sammy, what's the matter?"

Sam rubbed his forehead against Dean's shoulder, holding himself stiff like he knew he was shaking and wanted to stop it.

"Just say it, Sam," said Dean, a littler harder than he meant to. He stroked Sam's arm, his back, felt Sam's chest rise and fall.

"She could have taken me away from you," said Sam, muffled. "In a second if she'd wanted to. But the tree is real, Dean, if you know me, you know the tree is _real_."

"Of course it's real, Sam," he said. "I knew which tree it was the second I saw it. But you've got to stop--" He stopped himself before he got to harsh with Sam, who seemed to be on the verge of a crying jag, and after going through the wringer with Miss Windle, certainly wasn't up to it. "Listen, the next time we do art therapy, just ask me what to draw. I'll come up with something easy that Miss Windle will like, and then she won't get so freaked out."

He gave Sam a long, drawn-out pat and then hugged him close for a second. "Can you remember to do that? To just ask me? I have all kinds of ideas, puppies and kittens and duckies, Miss Windle will love that. Okay? Can you remember that?"

"I'll try," said Sam. Dean could feel Sam's mouth against his throat, maybe smiling even at the thought of drawing baby ducks. "Are you mad at me? I almost fucked it up."

"No," said Dean. "I'm not mad at you. I just don't like it when you--when I can't help you, so next time you get confused, stop for a minute. Ask me. I'll help you."

Sam sighed, and seemed to relax a little, his head sinking down, though Dean realized that Sam's heart was still pounding pretty hard.

"What is it, Sam?" Dean asked, low, almost whispering.

"Can I kiss you?" asked Sam whispering against Dean's chest.

Dean felt rather alert in the darkness. He had to take a deep breath, and then another one. This was tricky because all of a sudden his mouth wanted those kisses. His body wanted Sam's hands on it, all over, stroking and petting. The muscles in his groin started to gather themselves together in anticipation. He had to slow down, to keep it simple. Doing something for Sam, because Sam wanted it, in the aftermath of all this, not saying _no_ to Sam would be far easier to get forgiveness for than actually asking Sam to--

"Dean?"

"What?"

"Can I kiss you? Like the other night. I liked it."

"Why don't you just tell me a story."

"Can I kiss you and then tell you a story?"

Even though he couldn't see Sam's eyes, the neediness was there in his voice. The want. Dean's needing Sam had made strong and happy. Taking care of Dean had been good for him. Today he had protested and argued with someone who thought they knew better than he did, now he was asking for something he wanted, just like the old Sam. But this Sam didn't know they were brothers, he took care of Dean because he liked him. He'd liked it when Dean had put his hands on Sam and stroked him till he came. Dean could still feel Sam's whisper soft lips on his face, the heat of his mouth. The muscles around his cock started shifting under his skin.

"Uh, no, Sam, no."

"Please?" This came out very small, very small. Like it hurt him to have Dean say _no_ , like it was killing him to ask yet again.

"Sam…"

Sam moved against him and Dean found he couldn't say no again. Not with Sam's weight now on him, pressing him into the mattress, an anchor against the day, against useless thoughts and the feeling of being powerless in the face of an overzealous art therapist.

He felt those arms curve around his head, Sam's breath on his neck. Unspoken was the thought that earlier Miss Windle had been mean to Sam, taking away the smile from his face, making his shoulders stoop. Making him throw up. Making him cry. After all the hard work Dean had put into making his brother feel confident and sure, making him happy. Not to mention how hard Sam had worked, all the trust he'd placed in Dean, trying his best to be brave and to think things through.

It wasn't fair, and so Dean needed to undo the harm she had wrought. To bring Sam back to someplace nice and safe, so that Sam could walk with his shoulders straight, head up, not looking around like he was paranoid and scared. So, okay, for Sam, it was okay, he could do what Sam wanted. And maybe soon, Sam wouldn't need it anymore, this kind of closeness.

Sam wasn't talking about acid this time, so maybe even that idea had gone by the wayside. Which was proof that he could get better, if Dean did things with him that he normally wouldn't do. It wasn't forever, this thing between them. Just long enough to get Sam better, and then, when they left the loony bin, it would stop. He would make it stop. In the meantime, he would keep it in his pants and just give--

"Not too many, okay?" said Dean. He was whispering this, tipping his head back even as Sam tipped his head down, the dark shadow between them narrowing, the rush of air as Sam took a breath and pushed his lips to Dean. His mouth was closed, and it was soft and gentle. Dean realized Sam was shaking a little, so he scooped his arms around Sam's back, pressing against muscle and bone. "Hey," he said. "Hey…c'mon now."

Sam was fully on top of him, one thigh between Dean's legs, crooked up a tad high, the other clamped along the outside. He could feel Sam's heart pounding. He let Sam kiss him, and then again. Sam was still shaking.

"Hey. Hey."

"Kiss me, please, please, just, please--"

Opening his mouth to Sam's was like coming down a slide. Licking into it, just a little, giving Sam what he needed, wanted. This was for Sam, this was okay. They were stuck in this weird, not-quite-nice place, where the doors had special locks, and there was no way out. Not yet. Dean would find it, he would. But until he did, he would kiss Sam because Sam wanted it. Wanted it bad enough to beg for it. That was wrong. He should never make Sam beg, not for something as simple and easy as a kiss. Dean had kissed hundreds of women, Sam was more important to him than any of those.

Sam kissed, shaking, like he was holding himself back from kissing hard, like he liked it rough. Taking a breath, he kissed along Dean's jaw, nipping, and the kiss moved into another place Dean had not expected it to go. That his body followed, eager, cock hardening all at once, Sam's leg pushing the friction against his skin beneath his cotton pajamas. He let it happen, let the sheen of heat build up along his neck, swallow Sam's taste, hold on tight, holding Sam, feeling Sam's hardness between his legs grow, not quite hard, not with the meds still in his system. But this would clean the pipes a little, that was good for a man. Good for Sam.

Then Sam drew back a little, like he was going to gear himself up for another go, and Dean made himself push back on Sam's shoulders. "Okay, now, Sam, now, enough, okay? Tell me a story, now. Tell me about your brother." He was shaking, but he made himself hold Sam at a distance. He couldn't quite see Sam's expression, but the huff told him what he needed to know anyway.

"We'll--" he started, then he stopped, not quite sure what he'd been about to promise Sam, what he would be willing to do to keep Sam happy, keep him growing stronger. At some point, Sam was going to recover all of his memory, and while a few kisses in the dark for comfort were one thing, Dean's unspoken promise of a bath, so he could maybe pet Sam's skin all over, or more kisses, and still more kisses, and Dean's hand on Sam's cock--there would be no real way to explain them away.

"We need to sleep," he said. "You are almost off the meds, but it's hard to do all the way. You need rest, maybe we'll go outside tomorrow, maybe we'll find a way--"

He was about to say, _maybe we'll find a way to escape_ , but he didn't think Sam was quite ready for that. He needed to connect with Sam so firmly, so hard, that memory or no memory, that when Dean went, Sam would go with him, no questions asked. Tying Sam to him would involve more of the things Sam needed, which flew in the face of him stopping Sam just now. But he couldn't quite do it, even in the dark, even with Sam's body pressed up against his in a hot line. Good heat, soaking to his bones. And Sam's kisses, he'd never thought Sam's mouth would taste as good as it did. He petted Sam's head, kept him at bay, tried not to grind his jaw.

"Do you want that story, now?" asked Sam. Quiet in the darkness. Lying Dean's arms.

"Yeah." Dean nodded though Sam couldn't see him. "Yeah. Tell me a story about when you were little." A story about when Sam was little would be easier than thinking about where he was now, and would help keep the weirdness in his brain at bay.

This made Sam laugh a little, and Dean found out why when Sam started to talk. "Before I was big, I was little--"

Now Dean laughed, low in his throat, squeezing Sam's shoulders to him, feeling lucky, so very lucky.

"And this one time, my brother, well, my dad had given me a gun, but it was my brother who showed me how to shoot it. How to put the safety on, how to load the gun. Isn't that strange? I think I was nine, but he was so patient."

"Yeah?" Dean liked the sound of this story, could remember the other side of it, how serious and solemn Sam had been, not liking any of it, still pissed at Dad for all the lies, for missing Christmas, for making their lives what it was. And in spite of all that, doing exactly what Dean told him.

"And then we had to learn to shoot arrows, I think we were aiming at targets, but I remember shooting ones with the blade tipped in blood. When I was little, I would get these red marks all over the inside of my arm, but my brother, he taught me how to roll my elbow out of the way--and for some reason I remember aiming a cross bow at a vampire. Only vampires aren't real, are they?"

This is where it got tricky. "Maybe," said Dean, "maybe they are. But the meds certainly aren't helping you not think about them, right? So it's good that you're getting off those. Then we can figure what this vampire stuff is all about."

He felt Sam nod his head in agreement, the line of Sam's jaw against his breastbone, making him realize how much of Sam was on top of him, and how that felt. The warm place inside of him that was starting to fill with Sam's stories about his brother, his brother that he adored. Dean had known Sam looked up to him, but the stories, those were something told to a person not his brother, and thus, were filled to the top with it. All that love got pretty gooey, and normally, Dean would shove Sam away and tell him to knock it off. Not now, not this time. He was saving it, would save them all for the day when Sam would remember, and the stories would be no more.

"Go to sleep, Sam," he said. "Sleep now." He spread his hand to pet Sam's shoulder, felt Sam shift against him, and let his brain sink, thinking about high windows, and the sun streaming through them.

 

**Chapter 14**

Sam thought about the rhythm of their days, the rhythm of Dean that surrounded him. Every day became easier each time he woke up tucked beneath Dean's chin, and all of it warmer than the chilly air in the room. Sometimes, when they got ready in the mornings, it was cloudy, with the wind whipping the trees with grey slaps. Other times, like this morning, it was raining hard, the rain speckling the windows in one long sheet.

And inside, whether he was in line to go to the dining hall or working in the laundry (always nice when the day was especially damp), Dean was at his side. Nobody threatened to take him away. Sam figured that the rest of his life could pass this way and he wouldn't mind. As long as he had Dean.

But it was starting to make Sam wonder, if Dean was doing so well, and he seemed so much more normal than everyone else, why was he sticking around? He could see there was something Dean wasn't telling him, he just wished sometimes he knew, just knew, the truth so he could keep Dean from looking like Sam had punched him in the stomach. Yes, just like he was looking right now.

"Earth to Sam," said Dean.

They were in line to go somewhere, his breakfast was sitting in his stomach like a solid ball of glue. And Dean had been saying something as they walked along. Now Dean was waving his hand in front of Sam's face to get his attention.

"Just don't let Randy get to you," Dean said.

"Randy?"

"Mr. Pointy Fingers," said Dean as the line came to a halt in front of an open door. The orderly started pulling patients out of the line to go in the room that Sam recognized was the group therapy rom. Now he understood why Dean was telling him this. "We have Group, remember?"

Sam nodded, and it was clear now. Greer had come by their table during breakfast and said something about a schedule change. Group and art therapy on the same day and if anyone felt overwhelmed or needed something to keep them calm, they should say so.

Of course, Dean would never need additional meds and Sam wanted to be like him. So as they went in and sat down, he made up his mind to not ask. But he stuck close to Dean and sat next to him and didn't look at Pointy Fingers. Though it did make him smile as he thought of Dean's earlier imitation of Randy, how he'd stiffened and pointed and accused. Dean even had the voice down almost pat.

Dr. Baylor came in just as all the patients were still adjusting in their chairs. Dr. Baylor, in his white coat and glasses, holding his clipboard in his hand, sat next to Randy. Randy smiled huge, gloating as he looked over the group to make sure they noticed how special he was, wiggling and simpering. Sam looked away, and felt Dean's body trying to hold in a bray of laughter, and this made Sam smile.

Except Dr. Baylor was looking right at him.

"Well, Sam," he said, making that quirky smile with his mouth. "You seem like you're in a happy mood today. What has happened to make you so happy?"

Sam's whole body jerked like Dr. Baylor had snuck up on him. Normally Dr. Baylor asked a question in general, or prompted discussion by a statement of his own. But Sam had been smiling for apparently no reason and now he was getting noticed.

"Well, Sam?"

"Uh," said Sam, starting to sweat.

Randy was glaring at Sam, hard, because, of course, Dr. Baylor's discussion went in a circle, usually starting with the person on his right. Mr. Pointy Fingers had been usurped. His glare was hard and angry and drilled into Sam like spears. It felt exactly like that, one spear coming out of each eye, like he--

Dean jabbed an elbow at Sam. He wanted Sam to stop staring and start talking.

"I think it's nice that Randy gets to sit where he wants," said Sam. His voice sounded strong in his ears, not like his own voice at all.

Randy looked a little startled, his narrow face clouding up as his eyebrows drew together.

"It's nice that he gets to sit exactly where he wants," continued Sam.

"What a pleasant observation," began Dr. Baylor.

"Because otherwise," said Sam, looking right at Randy, "there'd be no end of his whining and bitching and pointing."

One of the men in the circle laughed outright, a rusty squeezed laugh, but it let Sam know that, yes, he'd gotten it right, right on the money. He didn't dare look at Dean who was shaking and almost leaning against Sam as if for support and the strength not to giggle. He was even holding his breath, Sam could feel it. But he kept his own expression passive, enjoying Randy's open-mouthed response, his tongue flapping loose and making him look very stupid.

For a moment, Dr. Baylor looked like he didn't know what to say and it occurred to Sam that mental patients properly on their meds out not to have quite so much backbone and what had possessed him? Dean hadn't said it was a secret, exactly, but as he was taking fewer meds, Sam knew that it should be: no one was supposed to find out about the meds. Showing off like that only brought them more notice than Dean wanted.

Sam shrank back down in his seat, trying to appear small, but it was too late.

"One day," said Randy, "and you're already planning it, you want to catch me when there's no one else around."

"Now, Randy," said Dr. Baylor. He was busy writing something on his clipboard.

"You'll take my _pants_ off and stick it in me and when you pull it out, I'll be bleeding."

"Hey," said Dean, sitting forward, "that's enough out of you."

"I'll be bleeding and they'll find me that way, lying on the floor!" Randy's voice was rising to a scream. "And then they'll take me to the infirmary, and they'll have to--"

"Randy," said Dr. Baylor. He put his hand on Randy's arm. "You need to calm down, now."

"I'll probably have VD or HD or something and they'll have to put something in my ass. It will sting, and I'll cry in front of the doctors--"

Now Randy was standing up, walking over to Sam with his hands in fists. Sam shrank back, and Dr. Baylor was standing up too, to press the red button, but by the time the door swung open, Randy was on him, swinging away. Only his aim wasn't very good, and Dean was there, hauling Randy off him.

"I'll have VD, and I won't be able to put my _pants_ back on because the doctor will put something up me, with a little light, and the light will burn and all because--"

The orderly came over and yanked Randy back up, hands tight on Randy's arms with the same technique that Greer used.

"Because you couldn't keep it in your _pants_!"

The sound of the word _pants_ echoed down the hall as Randy was dragged off and Sam gripped the edge of the metal seat so hard it felt like he was cutting his palms open. But if he didn't hold on, he would shake so hard, he would have to stand up. And then the orderly would come for him, and then they would find out--

Dr. Baylor waited till the door slammed closed and they couldn't hear Randy's shouts anymore. He wasn't looking at Sam, and that was okay by Sam, because one look through those glasses, one note on that damn clipboard, and Sam knew he would start crying. He'd screwed up. Again.

"Randy is upset today," said Dr. Baylor. "He will get the help he needs, so shall we continue with Group?"

"What about Sam?" asked Dean, loud. "Randy comes at him like that and you're all _let's get on with Group_? What about Sam?"

Dr. Baylor put down his clipboard, resting it on his knees, and looked at Dean. Then he looked at Sam. Then he looked at Dean again.

"Sam looks fine to me. He looks calm and ready to continue with some productive conversation, don't you agree?"

Sam could feel Dean looking at him and everything was so jumbled in his mind that he couldn't look at Dean. Dean reached out to pat Sam's thigh, his palm was hot, just for a second, and Sam wished it could stay there. Wished they could be in bed right now, with Dean's heartbeat beneath his cheek, Dean's hands, warm along his back. But instead he felt cold as he ground his teeth together, and nodded. He had to come across as being fine. If he wasn't fine, that would start Dr. Baylor thinking about why Sam might not be fine. Then they would look at why Dean _was_ fine, and then they'd tell Dean he had to leave the hospital without Sam. And all because Sam couldn't keep his mouth shut.

He didn't look at Dean for the rest of Group. Couldn't even hear for the buzzing in his ears.

*

After Group was over, an orderly came to the door, and Sam could hear them discussing the rain, and how no one could go outside because it was raining too hard. As Sam stood up, Dean was right there, close enough to whisper to Sam.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," said Sam. He walked and got into line and tried to pretend that he was. "Randy scares me."

"Randy's a freak," said Dean.

That almost made Sam feel better but not quite.

The line led them to one of the Day rooms, and as Sam stepped over the threshold, he saw that Randy was there, sitting at one of the tables by the window. He was hunched over in the chair, and it look like he'd been crying.

"What gives? No Treatment?" asked Dean, not bothering to keep his voice down.

"Guess not," said Sam. He couldn't figure out if he thought Randy should have been strapped down for hours or not, but seeing him there made Sam's head feel dizzy.

"Hey," said Dean, tugging on his sleeve. "Speed puzzles."

Sam wasn't interested, but he followed Dean anyway. Dean led them to the back of the room, right past Randy's chair. Randy looked up at them, glowering, his mouth a thin, white line. Then, before Sam could blink, Dean bent down and grabbed a fistful of Randy's shirt with one hand, and with the other, he punched him hard, in the stomach. Randy bent forward with a breathy, damp gasp of air, and Dean bent low, his mouth by Randy's ear. Sam couldn't move.

"You talk to my--you talk to Sam, you look at Sam, you even _think_ about looking at Sam and I will pound you so hard the blood will come out your ears as well as your ass, you get me?"

Randy whimpered and tried to pull away, squirming. Shocked, Sam's mouth fell open, and he looked around the room, but it was crowded and the two orderlies were by the door, talking about something and not even paying attention to anything else.

"You get me, Mr. Pointy Fingers? I'm sick of your shit, your sick accusations, so you stop making them, or you'll be dead with your body rotting in the basement. And no one will care."

Dean let Randy go with a sharp push, and then stood up and kept on walking like nothing had ever happened. Randy slunk down in his chair as Sam passed him, and Sam knew that he'd never seen anything scarier. Well, the monsters of course, they were scary, but not like this. Up close and personal and almost out of control. Almost because Dean looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. As to why, it was obvious. He was protecting his Sam, he was protecting _him_.

As they sat down and Dean started picking out a totally new puzzle, Sam felt his chest jerking up and down, like he couldn't get enough air. He grabbed the edge of the table, and now it shook too, the puzzle pieces skittering.

"Hey," Dean said, looking up. He put the box down. He glanced over at Randy who was crying and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Don't worry about him, he'll be fine."

"He's going to tell, _Dean_. He's going to tell, and--"

Dean shook his head, and pushed out his lower lip. "So he tells? Who's going to believe him?"

"They'll believe him, they'll listen and--"

Now Dean stopped fiddling with the puzzle box. He leaned forward over the table like he was going to reach out and pat Sam's cheek. He didn't, but Sam was hoping that he would, because Dean's hands were always soothing. Except when they were punching some poor, crazy person. But Dean had that expression that seemed to say he wanted Sam to listen, so Sam did.

"They'll listen, but they'll chalk it off to Randy's drama. The guy loves to go to the infirmary; he gets tons of attention there. And trust me, I've got a clean record, no one will believe that I punched anyone. Okay? So just chill, and help me with this puzzle."

Sam tried. He really did, but all he could manage was to pick up each piece and turn it over and over between his fingers as he watched Dean select an array of pieces and snap them together, one, two, three. He was cold, his arms felt like icicles and rubbing his hands up and down them didn't help. At any second, someone was going to see that Randy was crying, and go over and ask him why. And then he would tell on Dean. But no one paid him any mind, and it was sad in a way that made Sam's heart peel up at the corners in little curls. Just like that, because Randy was seriously troubled, and no one liked him, and now Dean had punched him, and now he was crying. And no one cared.

"Dean--"

"You feel sorry for him, and I'll end you."

This stopped Sam like nothing else. He could hear the phase in his head, like he'd heard it before, an echo before the echo. Someone had said it to him before, but he didn't know who.

"I don't feel sorry for him, exactly," said Sam. "But it's just not right. He's in this place for a reason, so it's wrong to--"

"Do you _want_ me to end you?" asked Dean, not looking up, a little scowl across his mouth. His hands were busy on the puzzle, but Sam knew he was mad.

"No," said Sam, his voice small. He kept rubbing his arms and couldn't stop until one of the orderlies finally noticed and came over to Randy. After talking to him for a moment, the orderly helped Randy to his feet and walked him out of the room. Sam didn't know where they were going or what Randy would say, but it was easier not to think about it when Randy wasn't there.

"C'mon," said Dean. "Help me with this. I'm always ahead, and it's no fun when it's not a contest."

But Sam couldn't help him. Not at the puzzle, and not during lunch, where Dean tried to distract him by complaining about the food, or by giving Sam his peaches, suddenly announcing that he didn't like them out of a can. Which was a lie, Dean loved peaches. He knew that, the way he knew some other things, little things, the way how Dean held his fork pressed against his second to last finger, the way he curved his other arm around the tray like he was afraid someone would take it. The way his lower lip looked moist while he chewed, making everything he ate look somehow sinful and delicious, even though Sam knew perfectly well the food here was crap.

After lunch, they went to art therapy, and it was only when Dean grabbed his hands and pulled them back to his sides that Sam was able to stop rubbing his arms.

*

Miss Windle gave them instructions as they walked in the door. She wanted them to draw a person. She didn't even give them time to start before she was already walking around, and Dean hated the way this made his chest feel. He couldn't draw for nothing, and she wanted him to draw a person? After the redwood tree deal, he didn't want her coming over and making any pointed observations.

Plus there was Sam, still shaken up by Randy, who Dean would cheerfully kill if it wasn't making him feel so rotten already, punching some crazy guy who didn't really know any better. Or maybe he did and saying stupid shit was the only way he could deal. Either way, someone needed to have dragged him into line, long ago, crazy or not. Dean just hoped his one punch did the trick, doing anything like that again would feel too much like beating up on someone littler than him. Exactly like it. It was just that--

Miss Windle stopped at their table, making small sounds at the fact that both of their papers were blank. As she walked off, Dean nudged Sam, wishing there was something he could do to get that glassy look out of Sam's eyes, but there were too many people around. Besides which, the one or two things that would take that look away were something he shouldn't be doing anyway. But Sam wasn't looking at him as he picked up some blue chalk, so Dean picked up some brown chalk and went at it.

He drew a road that curved to the right, up and off the page. Then he remembered that Miss Windle would have something mean to say about that, so he picked up the black chalk (that Sam was completely ignoring) and drew a person on the road. It was more a stick figure than anything else, but it did look like a real person, someone walking up the road towards the distant horizon. What would that say about him when she came by? He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

When he looked up, Miss Windle was coming back by. Dean realized that he had forgotten again to mind Sam and tell him to draw a duck or a kitten or something happy and simple, not what he had.

On one half of Sam's paper there was a large blue man. He was all circles and odd lines, but he was most definitely a man, and he was very, very blue. There were little white lines coming out of him, no doubt lightning. And on the other half were two figures, one with dark hair, one with lighter hair. And even though it looked like the dark haired one was falling backwards, and the lighter haired one was floating off the page, it was easy to tell who they were supposed to be and what was happening: the djinn was attacking and Sam was protecting the other man. Him. Dean.

"And what is this, Sam?" asked Miss Windle. There was a smudge on her face of red chalk that looked like war paint.

Dean opened his mouth to start explaining it, but Sam was right there, talking. "This is me and my brother and I'm trying to protect him from the blue man. I mean, he's dead, the blue man killed him, but this is what I wanted to do. I wanted to save him."

"So this is a fantasy drawing, Sam. I clearly asked you to draw a person."

"It's not a fantasy," said Sam. His chin jutted forward. Had Miss Windle been Dad, the line in the sand would surely have been drawn. "It's real, it's my feelings. When the blue man attacked, this is what I wanted to do, what I _felt_ like doing." He looked at her hard, like she was too stupid to get it. His voice said it, too.

Miss Windle might have been poorly paid art therapist but she was far from stupid. "You've entirely missed the focus of this exercise, Sam. Dr. Logan is not going to be happy about this."

She took Sam's drawing up, and never minding the swirl of chalk that came off it, she rolled it up quickly and held it out of Sam's reach. It was evidence that Sam was still obsessing about the blue man, in spite of Dean's assurances to Dr. Logan that the only thing Sam was obsessing about was soap, and that was harmless.

Dean took a breath. "I wanted to draw a blue man," he said. "But Sam was hogging the blue chalk."

"Excuse me?" asked Miss Windle.

"I wanted to draw a blue man," said Dean, repeating himself loudly and clearly. "But there's only one piece of blue chalk in the basket and Sam had it. I felt blue, I wanted to draw blue all over the place. A blue man, just like that."

Sam stared at him with that funny furrowed brow of his that formed when he was totally confused. Everyone in the class was looking at him too.

"I didn't have any blue chalk," said someone. "Why didn't I have any blue chalk?"

Someone else from the back of the room spoke up. "I can draw a blue man, I have two different shades of blue."

"That's not fair," said the first man. "I know how to share, but he's not sharing his blue."

"Can I start over again?" said a man from the next table. "I didn't really want to draw a rainbow."

Miss Windle looked like she was going to explode. Her eyes were popping out and her mouth was screwed tight. "Greer!" she snapped.

Greer came and got them and hustled them all in line. As they walked down the hall, Dean didn't laugh. He didn't even really want to laugh, because it wasn't really funny. They were in trouble, him and Sam, Sam for drawing what he felt and Dean for mocking Miss Windle. But the flicker in Sam's green eyes felt good, washing over him like a balm. Like sunshine from a window that he might some day reach. Girly thoughts. He balled a fist and socked Sam gently in the shoulder.

Sam tipped his head and looked like he was trying not to smile. But he failed.

*

They were supposed to work in the yard, but it was still raining so hard, half of them got taken to the Day room and the other half went somewhere else. Dean grabbed up a table and a puzzle, and he went at it with Sam. Speed puzzles again. The murmur of the room hummed around them, and it was nice to be sitting with the rain pelting the windows, Sam at his side. Doing something that didn't matter, but that kept them together, safe.

Someone came over and sat in one of the chairs at the table. Dean looked up. It was Greer.

"Blue man, Dean? What the hell were you playing at?"

Greer was looking at him like he knew everything, the unauthorized decrease in meds, the fact that Dean had his memory back, the fact that Sam had kissed him last night, and that Dean had given his brother a hand job. Dean couldn't figure whether Greer was spying on them or not, whether he would carry tales back to Dr. Logan, but hell. The story was probably already in the doctor's office by now, courtesy of Miss Windle.

Dean shrugged. "Everyone takes it so seriously. That's how it becomes important. More important than it has to be. I figured, make a joke, make her see--"

Greer opened his mouth, and Dean realized he was almost laughing. "You do realize you're just a patient here, don't you, Dean?"

That was funny. Dean smiled back, but Sam just glowered. He didn't seem to like any of the staff, no matter what, and although he didn't act afraid of Greer, it would take a crowbar to get a word out of him at this point. Dean let him remain silent, didn't encourage him.

"Yeah," Dean said, "but you put a man in charge, and he starts taking responsibility."

Looking at him for a moment, Greer nodded. "What about Randy? He was having a fit earlier today, and they've got him in Treatment now."

Dean couldn't make himself be upset at this, though Sam hung his head, and wouldn't look up.

"He says you punched him," said Greer.

Dean knew that Greer probably knew the whole story, how Randy was a little shit and always got his way, how Randy lashed out, and was probably acting out, and that somehow, he'd latched on Sam to express his issues. Or whatever. The fact that Greer wasn't already hauling him off for the loony bin's version of disciplinary action didn't really tell Dean anything, other than the fact that Greer probably thought that maybe Randy had it coming.

"There won't be any more punching on my ward," said Greer, looking right at Dean.

Dean shook his head. That was his answer then. Yeah, Randy probably deserved it, and no, Dean better not try that again. He carefully refrained from saying something snotty, like _he just better lay off of Sam, or there will be_ , because that would just be tempting fate. And as worked up as Sam was about Randy, Dean needed to be with Sam, not off in solitary somewhere. "There won't be," he said, finally.

Greer nodded, and stood up and strode off towards Bellows, who was trying to chew on the side of the TV.

Dean looked at Sam. "Score for my man Jack," he said. Sam looked a little confused, but then he always did, not being a Jack Nicholson fan. "Never mind, here. Here's a piece of snow. See this one? I'll bet it goes. Right. Here." He put the nondescript piece of white puzzle in the middle of the square of the frame Sam had made. "Perfect. Now hand me another piece."

*

Sam felt like he was grinding his teeth together hard enough to turn them into powder. If he were to get his fingers trapped in there, he would be crushing his fingerbones in no time flat. He had an uncomfortably clear image of himself with blood and bits of bone coming out of his mouth. Then Dean stumbled on his heels and Sam knew that they were in their room, that the orderly was locking the door closed behind them, and that it was time to go to bed. The dull thudding feeling in his chest was confusing. Yesterday, he'd felt so clear and today it was like he was soaked in mud, moving in slow motion. It was just that Dean had been so--

Sam stopped mid-thought, watching Dean through the bathroom doorway as he brushed his teeth and ran a washcloth over his face, thinking how Dean seemed to want some distance. Once in a while, his eyes would flick to Sam's and Sam could feel Dean tense up when he did this. Appraising the situation, and Sam, all at once. Then Dean did a small _come here_ gesture with his head, tipping it away and drawing Sam to him.

Sam went, easing himself beside Dean at the sink, letting his hands follow what Dean's hands had done, and let them create a solemn echo of motion and economy, part of who Dean was. Which is what made what happened in the Day room so--

"What's up, Sam-I-Am?" asked Dean.

All of a sudden, Sam's teeth clicked together and he knew that reference. Dr. Seuss. Knew all of the books, thin and worn, all bright red and blue with weird, furry people on the covers. He could hear the deep, burry voice, one of the voices in his head, reading the lines that rhymed. Heard the pages turn, like dusty secrets of a childhood of long ago.

 _He_ was Sam-I-Am. Sometimes people called him that. Like now. It was so powerful and clear, this memory, it hurt. He tried to keep from rubbing his head, but failed as his hand made an abortive attempt to stop and ended up knocking Dean in the shoulder, just as Dean was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Dean turned to look at him, watching Sam with careful eyes as Sam finished up at the sink. Dean's shoulders were wide, his arms strong, and his fists could form so fast. They would hurt if they punched, but at the same time, they had never hurt Sam. Had never done anything but hold him and pet him, keep him warm. Made him feel protected. As for Randy--

"I can see you thinking," said Dean. He pushed past Sam as he walked out of the bathroom, his hands on Sam's forearms, pulling as he went. But loose enough to let go if Sam even so much as twitched away. If he didn't want it. Then Dean would let go. But Sam didn't want that. Ever. So he went where Dean pulled, over to the dresser, taking off his shoes and socks, stripping down when Dean did, and pulling on his p.j.'s. Leaving the top button open. Like Dean did.

He watched Dean walk over to the bed to put his sneakers beneath the metal frame. _Their_ bed, since Sam shared it now, and thought he might not have to ask out loud, or at all, Dean had never said _no_. Then Dean sat down and looked up at Sam and said, "Wipe your face, Sam."

Sam did, obeying on some inner automatic control and his fingers found that his face was wet, and he'd been standing there crying. Not even knowing it. Everything felt so disconnected as if the face belonged to one body and the hand to another. He didn't know any way to feel connected, there was such a huge gap--

Dean reached out and grabbed a handful of Sam's shirt and pulled him close. There was a second of cold feet beneath Sam's as he bumped into Dean. Dean splayed his thighs wide to make room for Sam. And then Sam felt his knees buckled and gracelessly slid down till they hit the floor.

He buried his face in the warm crook of Dean's hip, sliding his arms wide to hold on to as much Dean as he possibly could. And then he cried, his eyes hot, Dean's cotton p.j.'s soaking through, and Dean's thigh beneath, a hard, calm surface against which he could push and push and _push_. Dean never moved, only his hand, cupping Sam's head, moved, the other stroking along Sam's back, slowly, slowly. Letting Sam cry. Not saying a word.

He kept petting Sam till Sam felt the thudding in his chest fade away, kept petting the curve of Sam's head, moving the hair out of Sam's eyes, stroking Sam's cheek, pushing away the damp hair stuck to his skin with tears. Then Sam took a deep breath and he stayed like that, not crying now, but resting, breathing as Dean breathed. Gradually feeling the muscles in his back loosen as he let out a long, shuddering sigh.

How nice Dean smelled, warm and salty, and Sam thought about offering a bath to say thank you, or how he might touch Dean as Dean had touched him, how Dean would say _no_ , how Dean stiffened up a bit now as he tugged on Sam's shoulder. Just as Sam realized his mouth was open and that he could almost taste Dean through the thin, soaked cotton.

"Up," said Dean, pulling, just as the chime sounded. They had two minutes before lights out, so Sam stood up, and wiped his eyes, and let Dean pull him onto the bed. He shut his eyes while the room was still lit and thought about that, all that white, and Dean's green eyes, like searchlights, finding his and holding on.

He heard the click as the lights went out, the rustle of the sheets, the muffled thump as Dean arranged the pillows and blankets to his liking. Sam didn't care about that; Dean's arms folded around him and pulled him close and that was all Sam needed.

As the night settled around them, Dean took a breath. Sam felt Dean's chest rise and fall beneath his cheek.

"So?" asked Dean. "It's gotta be the meds, but--" he paused a second, his fingers rapping one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four along Sam's arm. "It's probably Randy."

Sam nodded, his jaw rubbing against Dean's chest.

"What if I was like Randy," said Sam, the words coming slow as the thoughts built up in his head. "And I wanted to be the doctor's pet because no one else liked me."

He heard Dean open his mouth to say something. Something comforting but dismissive because, and Sam could already hear it in his head as Dean might say it, that he _didn't give a shit about Randy_. Only about Sam. But to Sam the idea of being unloved and alone felt too familiar to be dismissed, and it made his stomach clench. So he hurried.

"Wait," he said. "What if someone punched me, only I didn't have a Dean to stand up for me or make me feel better. What if--"

Beside him in the bed, Dean was almost squirming. Sam could feel the hotness of his skin.

"I was only trying to get him to stop," said Dean, "and he wasn't going to unless--"

"I know," said Sam. That part was true. But. "Punching him…" He trailed off, not quite sure how to put it. He could see Dean leaning down to grab Randy and how Randy had cowered away, and how no one else was watching out for Randy. And how Dean could really have hurt him. But then, Dean had been looking out for Sam, doing his best, taking care of the situation when Dr. Baylor had just glossed over it. So Dean was there for Sam. But no one was there for Randy. He didn't want to tell Dean what to do. Or to take what Dean had tried to do for Sam and act like it had been an evil thing.

"Before you came," Sam said now, petting the front of Dean's shirt, "I was like Randy and when bad things happened, I was all alone." It was starting to make sense in his head. "And seeing that today, it felt like it was happening all over again. To me."

He stopped. Heard Dean make a low sound in his throat like he'd been trying to swallow and stopped. Then he gave Sam's arm a pat on his bare arm that sounded stark in the darkness.

"If it makes you feel any better," Dean said gruffly, "I feel like a complete shit now."

"Don't," said Sam, realizing he meant it. "It was only one punch and then Greer was there--" He paused.

"Greer was just looking out for Randy," said Dean.

"No," said Sam. "Greer was looking out for _you_ , to keep you out of trouble."

Which he had been; the expression on his face told Sam that Greer was as tired of Randy as Dean was. And Greer had told Dean to stop and Dean said he would, and Dean never lied about anything, so everything was really under control. Sam's stomach evened out and the tense wire running along his shoulders eased away.

"The little pipsqueak just better knock it off or I'll just have to--Sam, you know--" Dean seemed to run out of words and took a deep breath and Sam took one likewise. It made him feel much better.

"He's such a pervert," Dean continued, "always talking about--well, it's just whacked, is all."

"Why does he?" Sam was glad to be over with telling Dean something so hard. He thought instead about Randy's thin mouth moving as all that filth poured out of it.

"Because he never gets any and he misses it," said Dean, sounding certain of himself.

"Why?" asked Sam. "Why would he miss it, it doesn't sound any fun."

Dean's hand on his arm stilled. "Do you remember ever doing it?" he asked. "You wouldn't if you never had but--" Dean stopped to laugh, the small chuckle coming from his chest, from someplace deep and quite, reminding Sam how Dean liked to do that. To laugh, to make a joke when things got serious. Or personal, come to that.

"Because it is fun, and it's very naughty," said Dean. And then another laugh, and Sam could almost hear Dean smiling as he said, "And it always makes the girls howl."

"Why do they howl, Dean?" asked Sam.

 

"Because they _like_ it," said Dean, drawing his voice up on the word. "Or so they say."

"Do guys like it?" Sam figured they must, or Randy wouldn't be missing it.

Again. "So they say."

Sam thought about this for a minute. Dean knew all about stuff that Sam couldn't remember, even though Sam could remember some things that he thought Dean might not know. It would all balance out when his memory came back, and it made him realize how much he was looking forward to that time. On the road with Dean, in that car Dean had talked about a few times. His voice low and soft as he described a vehicle he referred to as _her_ or _my baby_ , his eyes shining. Only to go dim when he looked at Sam and realized that Sam had no recollection of the car in Dean's memory. Sam did have a memory of a car, but it was his brother's car.

He thought about Dean punching Randy to protect Sam. Not because he enjoyed doing it but because he _had_ to, because no one else would stop Randy from being a jerk. Dean had seen that whenever Randy attacked Sam, Sam came apart. Dean seemed very focused on making sure Sam didn't do that, that Sam was happy. With the suggestion to decrease their meds and the odd dandelion wish or the off-hand comment about getting out of the institution, the slow careful way he looked at Sam, seemed to want Sam with him when he went. Always. Standing like a flesh and blood barrier between Sam and anything that could hurt him.

Even Randy, the little pipsqueak. Randy who had thoughts about Sam sticking himself in Randy's behind, because, as Dean suggested, Randy liked it and wanted to howl. Dean had said it was naughty, but in a way that made it sound good, too. His voice had taken on a low, burry texture when he'd talked about it. Like it felt good to think about it. Maybe it felt good to Dean like Dean's hands felt good on Sam, good like Dean's mouth opening for him. Sam wondered how it might go between him and Dean. If they did _that_.

"Dean?" he asked, in the silence.

"Mmmmmm?"

It sounded like Dean was almost asleep.

"What if you--" Sam stopped and waited while the words arranged themselves in his head like before. "What if we did that, what Randy is talking about, so maybe I could understand why it makes him so mad, because--"

"That's taking empathy too far," said Dean. An instant later, his arm was gone from around Sam's shoulders and he practically shoved at Sam with both hands and rolled away to face the wall. Sam felt cold all over as the silence ticked in his head as he tried to trace what he'd said to piss Dean off.

"If it makes the girls howl, like you said," he said, carrying on to Dean's back, "then maybe you'd like it. Or maybe I'd--"

He stopped again, not quite sure how it would work in any specific way, as in who would be sticking what where, but he liked the feeling of it in his mind. The image it brought. Him and Dean, alone in their room in the near dark. Clothes off. Moving together, he could suddenly envision how they would move together, hot, close, the sheets wrinkled around them. Dean's mouth against his ear. Dean's scent all around.

"Maybe we'd like it," he finished, reaching out to touch the long patch of grey that he knew was Dean's back.

Dean sprung up in the bed like coils exploding, straight up in the dark.

"We're not going to do that," said Dean, pushing Sam's hands off him. "Just no and no and _no_."

Startled, Sam's whole body jerked and he almost bit his tongue, "But you already--we already--"

"The holding," said Dean, loud, "the holding--the--the _everything else_ is one thing. But come the day, and it _will_ come--I could never explain _that_ away."

Dean talked so fast Sam could hardly keep up.

"Explain to who?" Sam didn't move from his position on the bed because he knew that if he did, Dean would fly out of the bed so fast the sheets would snap. "Explain to who? I'm already here and who else needs to know anyway?"

"Explain to _you_ , you stupid jerk!" Dean poked him in the chest with a hard finger and then drew back. Sam could see his outline against the wall in the dark. Dean had buried his face in his hands.

Sam wanted to reach out to him. His hand got halfway there before it pulled back. "Whoever I'm going to be," said Sam, keeping his voice low and careful, "I'll understand."

"No, you won't." Muffled. "Oh, you _so_ won't."

With this violent reaction, Sam figured out that Dean was so worked up he might just keep saying _no_ on principle.

He'd talked about it like he had done it, at least with women, and had liked it. And maybe, come the day, after they were out of here, and Sam had his memory back, and after Dean had given him a ride in his car, then Dean would want to go on doing whatever he'd been doing before he'd invited Sam on a road trip with him. _An errand for my Dad_ , he'd said. The time for that errand was long passed, and surely Dean had something he needed to get back to. Some life that didn't involve Sam.

It was a new thought and not a pleasant one.

Sam didn't understand everything that was jumbling itself together in his head. Dean had been like a small storm in the Day room when he'd hit Randy. A glowing storm of hard muscle and his voice low and threatening, and all for Sam. Protecting Sam. It made Sam feel warm, deep in his belly, to feel that way, to be that protected. And maybe that was what other people felt like. People outside the hospital, people who had friends and family, people they touched and loved. Like Dean seemed to love Sam.

Dean had never said no to him before, had never denied him anything. But now, now that he'd said no to this, this seemingly pleasant thing, what else might he say no to? But that, really, even though Dean said he couldn't explain it to whoever he was planning on explaining it to _come the day_ , he never said he didn't want it. And maybe that was the key.

"I can hear you thinking again, Sam," said Dean, almost growling. He shifted in the bed, uncovering his face, though Sam could only see a slice of light on the side of Dean's face. "You're thinking so hard I can just about smell smoke, so just cut it out."

"I'm not thinking anything," said Sam. "I'm just tired."

He felt Dean instantly respond to that, like he always did when Sam needed something. And it occurred to him that while he liked that, he rather wished that Dean would respond to him, to touch and stroke and pet him, just because he wanted to. Not because it was something he felt Sam needed. But yes, Dean was laying back down, on the pillow next to Sam's pillow, a careful few inches between their bodies as Dean pulled up the sheet and the covers, settling them over Sam as he did for himself. As Dean did, as Dean always did, first Sam's needs, and then his own. And even then, sometimes nothing for himself. Sam was amazed that he'd never seen it before.

"Sam," said Dean. There was warning in his voice. "We're not going to talk about this anymore."

Sam didn't say anything.

"You hear me?"

"Yes," said Sam. He guessed he knew the difference between _hearing_ and _agreeing_ as well as anybody. "Yes, I hear you."

Apparently, Dean was tired too, or Sam thought that Dean would have caught on to what Sam _wasn't_ saying and elicit a promise from him out loud. He would make Sam say it word for word, _we're not talking about this anymore_ , and maybe he would make them spit shake on it, too. That seemed like something Dean would do. Or maybe it was something Sam had read it a book. Some book he'd read after the voice in his head had been done reading Dr. Seuss to him before he went to bed at night. In a small, musty room lined with fake wood paneling, and a little green fridge in the corner that hummed and whistled. Someone at a table nearby with the lamp on low as they sharpened a knife that glinted in the light. Sam remembered looking at the light, trying not to fall asleep because he liked watching his brother sharpen his knife. He remembered failing, but that was okay, because he'd felt safe and protected then, too. Safe enough to fall asleep.

 

Chapter 15

Sam realized he rather liked working outside, which was good, since the orderlies were always able to think of chores that involved them going into the yard, or along the drive. That day, they were stationed along the front drive, only a small group of patients, ones that Sam recognized as being the good kind. They never tried to eat anything they shouldn't, they could listen to orders, and never had to be shouted at or dragged away screaming or crying.

They were paired up, as they always were, this time with a little bucket of white paint and a sponge brush. The sponge brush didn't hold very much and tended to splatter, but since they were painting the round rocks that lined the gravel drive, the only thing that got messy was the grass. And them, actually, but their clothes and damp sneakers tended to hide the spots.

But it was being with Dean in the fresh air that Sam liked best. Partly because Dean made the sky seem not so big, and partly because of Dean himself.

Dean tended to chew his bottom lip as he crouched on his heels and painted each rock. He was frowning in concentration as he swiped the brush into the bucket and coated the rock with it. Sam struggled to concentrate himself and keep painting when Dean looked like that. Serious and happy, content in his task. Cheeks flushed, sparkles of moisture along his eyebrows as the overcast afternoon grew warm and humid. And when he looked up at Sam, his eyes were bright. This was probably because he liked working with his hands, or maybe because he liked being out of doors too. Maybe even because he liked being with Sam. Maybe all three. Sam didn't care about sharing the spotlight with the work and the weather, as long as he did have a spot.

"Let's take bets on what's for supper tonight, okay, Sam?"

Sam made himself pay attention to what Dean was saying, rather than the curve of his mouth as he smiled. "We don't have anything to bet with," he said.

"It's a who-knows-best-bet," said Dean. "I vote beef stew. Your turn."

Sam thought about this a while, understanding that type of bet, thinking he must have played it before. He remembered that they'd had been stew last week, and then the week before. It was too soon for beef stew again, so he said, "Fish sticks."

"Fish sticks? Where'd you get that lame idea?"

Of course, Dean didn't really think it was lame. Sam could tell by the quirking of the corner of his mouth that he was teasing, in that way he had, just wanting an excuse to laugh.

"I bribed the jailer and he told me," said Sam. He dunked his brush and crouched down next to Dean and bumped him with his knee. "So I'm right and I win and you've already lost."

"Huh," said Dean, trying not to laugh. "Well, we'll see."

*

Supper turned out to be pizza rounds that Dean started eating as if they might be good, but Sam saw him start frowning after the second bite.

"Bad?" asked Sam. He already knew the answer.

"Just eat it, Sam, so we can keep up your strength so you can participate in more slave labor."

Of course Dean didn't mean that, it was another one of his jokes.

"And so we'll have enough strength to break out of this joint," Dean added.

More jokes, though Sam knew Dean was serious. He wanted to get out, he wanted to walk away from the hospital because he didn't like it and didn't think it could help him. Sam was starting to see why. He felt better off the meds, and even if his memory wasn't really coming back, he was more alert and aware. And able to notice Dean's tongue as it swiped a bit of cheese from his bottom lip. Or watch the way his throat worked as he downed a full carton of milk in several large swallows. Before, on the meds, Sam had never noticed anything. Now he noticed everything, and everything was Dean.

"What you lookin' at, Sammy, I got something in my teeth?"

He had to struggle to focus, the way Dean's lips moved when they said his name sent a nice, little shiver across the back of his neck and he thought about Dean kissing him there. He hadn't yet, but he might, if when they were in bed, he could work it so--

"Sammy?"

"Nothing," said Sam. "I don't see anything. Just looking."

Dean made a face and went back to eating his pizza rounds, and Sam did likewise because yes, you had to keep up your strength. Although maybe not for slave labor.

*

By the time they were getting ready for bed, Sam was almost shivering. He'd watched Dean all day, watched him paint and eat and work with the puzzles. A few times Dean had asked if he was alright, like he did, checking up on Sam, and Sam had said he was fine, maybe a little tired.

And as he watched Dean brush his teeth and wash his face, he couldn't stop thinking about Dean's mouth. Couldn't think about kissing him. Dean's mouth tasted nice, and Dean's arms were warm and solid, Dean's hands on him made him shiver. Any of those would be the perfect ending to a pretty nice day. He'd gotten to go outside with Dean, hadn't seen Dr. Logan or Dr. Baylor or even Randy all day. There'd been no art therapy, no group therapy. Just lots of Dean, lots of images of Dean, bending and moving, walking into the Day room like he owned it, all flushed and healthy compared to everyone else. Looking at Sam, sometimes. Smiling at Sam, eyes sparkling.

Finally, as they were getting on their p.j.'s and the chime sounded for lights out, Dean gave Sam a nudge. Sam had to sit down on the bed to remove his socks, and looked up at Dean.

"What?" he asked.

"You been looking at me funny, Sam. All day. What's up?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I just was thinking about you."

"All day?"

"Uh-huh."

"Sam."

The lights clicked off and Sam heard Dean's huff deep in his throat as he pulled back the covers and the sheet and got into the bed. Sam scrambled after him, folding himself close, sighing from deep in his chest, the whole of his skin sighing along with him at the pleasure of contact with Dean's skin.

"Hey, there," said Dean, his hands pushing a little at Sam as if in protest. "That's your half, and this is my half."

But Dean didn't really mean that, the bed was too small to narrow for them to put a lot of space between their bodies. And besides, Sam's body didn't want space. He shifted close, feeling brave and alive, sparking from within, this unnamable thing, an urging in his head to push and to hold. He closed his eyes to the half-darkness and concentrated on the feel of Dean's stomach under his arm, the pause and rise and pause and fall of Dean's chest. How warm he was, how close and still.

The thumping in Sam's chest felt loud, and his stomach started squirreling around as he moved his arm back so his palm rested on the flat of Dean's stomach. He felt the muscles beneath his hand dip concave and then the circle of Dean's fingers tightening on his wrist.

"Sam," said Dean. His voice was low as if someone might overhear them. "C'mon now."

"But I want to, Dean," said Sam.

He pulled his wrist out of Dean's grasp and nudged his knee against Dean's thigh and shifted his weight so that in a second, he could be on Dean, pressing him back into the mattress. Dean seemed to like that when they'd done it before, and it felt right, to be this close, the blood starting to hum through his cock, the muscles along the backs of his legs tightening with pleasant, jerky twitches. He could feel Dean's breath across his forehead, and dipped his chin lower so that his mouth could feel the heat of Dean's skin just above the neckline of Dean's cotton pajama top.

Feeling like he was leaping into nothing, feeling brave, Sam spread his fingers and moved his hand down before Dean could say anything else and stop him. Sam didn't understand where the hesitation came from, they'd done this before. Sam had been on the receiving end, true, but it was Dean's turn now. And Sam wanted to touch him. Like this, just as his hand moved across Dean's groin, his fingers brushed the edges of Dean's cock. It was like a band of iron, hot and pushing up the front of Dean's pajama bottoms. Sam knew Dean was wearing his white boxers, the ones issued by the hospital, and he found that his mouth was open, moist like it was ready for a kiss.

"Hey," said Dean, but his voice sounded like it didn't quite know whether it wanted Sam to stop or to go. So Sam did what he wanted to do. He went. Not too fast, taking note of the pounding of Dean's heart through his ear, of the slightly high pitched sound Dean's breath made as Sam slipped his fingers up Dean's stomach, and then dipped them down beneath the elastic waistband of Dean's boxers beneath his pajamas. Dean was shivering as Sam circled his fingers around Dean's cock, the heat surprising him, the pounding of blood echoing each thump of Dean's heart.

"S-Sam," said Dean, catching itself on Sam's name, tongue too tight in his mouth to be more clear. Well, Sam could fix that.

He couldn't quite be on Dean, and touch him like this and kiss him at the same time. So he reached up and lined himself up along Dean's side, kissing him on the side of his face, tongue licking out at the little dimple at the corner of Dean's mouth, his hand making long, soft smooth strokes on Dean's cock, building up warmth. Liking the ease of it, even as his wristbones seemed to catch on the elastic and tug it irritatingly up and down, not letting him get a good, solid stroke in. When all at once, Dean made a low, grunting noise in his throat. He turned into the kiss, his mouth opening for Sam's, all heat and salt and movement. Then he reached down with both hands, knocking Sam's hand out of the way and off his cock, and with one, hard shove, took down his boxers and his pajama bottoms.

Sam slipped into Dean's mouth, and when he reached down, his hand told him that Dean was bare to mid thigh, the hairs on his thighs pricking up, tender shivers moving across Dean's skin. Sam moved to cover him with his body, reaching between them as he half lay on Dean, cupping Dean's head close, licking at Dean's lips, kissing, taking huge swallows. And all the while stroking Dean's dick, the blood pounding under his fingers, moisture growing, building around the head. He pulled that moisture down, and pulled and stroked, kissing Dean, inhaling him, his own heart pounding, Dean's arms coming up to pull him even closer, down against Dean.

They rocked together like this, Sam pushing against Dean into the mattress, Dean rising up, almost forcefully, only to have Sam push him down again. But Dean seemed to like that, reached for it again and again.. His hands on Sam were gripping tight, fingers digging in as Dean arched against him, throat bare. Sam felt himself growling, deep in his stomach, as he wrapped his arm around Dean's shoulder, and held Dean to him, stroking and heat beneath his hand.

Dean was _his_ , and this moment was his, and Dean liked it, Dean was pushing into him like he wanted to get inside of him, and then he felt all of Dean's body, the long, hot length of his cock, bundle up like a fierce, building storm, and then Dean made a high lost sound in his throat. His cock jerked hard in Sam's hand, pumping upwards, the streams of come spilling between Sam's fingers. He kissed Dean, kept kissing him, till Dean's body relaxed against him, till Dean sighed and pulled his mouth away, his hands on Sam's shoulders.

"Uh," Dean said, inarticulate. Which was fine with Sam. It meant he'd done it right, taken the acidy feeling straight out of Dean.. Not easy to do when the only way he'd learned was by watching what Dean had done to him, and that had only happened once. "Uh, Sam."

"Yeah," said Sam. He whispered, and bent to kiss Dean's forehead. He could taste the speckles of sweat and salt, and he drew his tongue lightly across the length of Dean's eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Uh," said Dean again. "I had something in my brain, but now it's all gone."

"Something like don't, stop, don't?" asked Sam, joking, remembering the line from somewhere.

"Yeah," said Dean. "Something like that. How'd you know what to do?"

"Watching you," said Sam. "Feeling your hands on me, thinking how that'd feel for you."

"Mmmmm." The noise was noncommittal, but that was okay. Dean hadn't pulled away, or pushed Sam away. Instead he seemed content to lay where he was, with Sam's arms wrapped around him, with Sam pressing him into the mattress, looming over him, their bodies sticky with heat and semen, the sheets rucked beneath them.

Sam reached down to pull up Dean's boxers and pajama bottoms, tugging the cloth across Dean's bottom, trying not to tug on leg hairs or any hairs. He knew that he was smiling but that Dean had his eyes closed and wouldn't see. So when he'd finished arranging Dean's clothes, he patted Dean's chest softly and bent close to flick his eyelashes along Dean's eyelashes, and press his smile to Dean's lips.

"You liked that, huh?" asked Sam,

Dean nodded. "Yeah." His voice was sleepy as he curved his arm behind Sam's back to pet him.

Sam moved his face against Dean. His throat felt too full and content to speak, and besides he didn't want any more words now. He wanted to feel Dean against him, so he tucked his head into the hollow of Dean's throat and inhaled the warmth and Dean and the bite of salt, the dusty cotton of worn sheets.

"G'night, Sammy," said Dean.

Sam pressed his head down for a minute and then let it up, tucking his knee across Dean's, pulling the sheet up.

Yes, that was good. That was what he'd wanted all day. And how nice Dean had been to let him give it. How nice Dean was. Always.

 

Chapter 16

They worked hard at painting the rocks for a few days until it started raining again, and Dean realized when they went back outside after it stopped raining to pick up branches and leaves from the front lawn that it had been too wet to paint in the first place. The paint from the tops of the rocks had thinned to show the grey beneath the white. Dean carted the bucket and held it for Sam as he bent to pick up a stray weed, and nudged Sam with his foot. When Sam looked up, Dean pointed at the rocks.

"Now I _am_ going crazy," he said. "All that work."

Sam rolled his eyes, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's good for the patients," he said, "because it's the work that counts, not the result."

He sounded so normal and sensible, so Samlike, that it was almost as if they were undercover and not that Sam was really suffering from amnesia. Dean hunkered down, wanting to make another joke, when the slick bottoms of his sneakers slipped, and he landed on his ass in the wet grass. The thin cotton pants soaked it up, and he knew that in a second that Greer would see and make him go inside and change. Like he was Bellows or some other loony.

"Fuck."

This made Sam laugh out loud, mouth wide, eyes bright, and he actually reached over and gave Dean a push, so his whole side got wet now, and cold. But it was good, Sam like this, more like his old self, with his dark hair flopping in his eyes and sticking to his face in the damp. With dimples quirking along the side of his face like they used to in the old days. Before the hospital.

Dean felt the impulse, a warm, solid feeling in his chest, wanting it to be like that, this moment, him and Sam, and Sam laughing with him in the damp, cool air. Brave and alive and there, his hands in the grass, attentive to his task, but looking at Dean. This was the way he wanted it to be, for always. Even though it couldn't be.

It especially couldn't be like last night, where Sam had pressed close and put his hands on Dean. For a guy locked in a loony bin, he'd known what to do, and how to press and stroke and tease. That was there, too, under that bright smile, and in Sam's eyes, he saw the memory of that. Once they were gone from the hospital, it would have to stop, it would. But it made Sam feel good and it made Dean feel good, so maybe for now it was okay. But only if Dean could keep it from getting out of hand and going all the way like Sam wanted it to. _All the way, Sam's hands on his waist and--_ His cock started to get heavy and hot, and for Christ's sake, he had to stop thinking like this--

Sam gave him a nudge to let him know that Greer was walking their way, so Dean made sure he was standing on both feet, and kept the side of him that was wet out of sight. Greer kept walking and when his back was to them, Sam gave Dean another push and sent him sprawling into the grass again. He was wet all over on the other side and streaked with green, now. But didn't matter, because Sam's snickers, as he tried to hide them in his grass-speckled hands, were the prize. _Sam_ was the prize, and for the moment, he belonged to Dean.

Dean got back up and chuffed Sam along the back of his head, and then stood there, letting his hand stay in Sam's hair for a minute before pulling it back. Holding the bucket while Sam worked. Watching Sam's hands and the pull of muscles in his arms. The sweat on his neck. While they were stuck in the loony bin, maybe it was okay. Besides there wasn't anything he could do about it. Sam was here, and he was here. And that's just the way it was. It would be alright. It would just be alright.

*

Supper was a dismally bad collection of overdone chicken and underdone rice. The patients at the other tables gobbled it down and either swallowed or let it dribble down their chins. Dean tried not to look, tried to be bracing and eager as he made himself eat the peas that were tasteless green blobs. He had to eat because Sam needed to eat, because if Dean didn't, Sam wouldn't. So he waded through the chicken and the peas and the crunchy rice and washed it down with milk. And wished he had some candy, maybe something like some Red Vines, for Sam for doing the same.

After supper that night, the Day room was a little more crowded, for some reason. The tables were all taken, and the couch was full, which was fine, because Dean was tired of watching the Cubs lose; he was beginning to think they did it on purpose, just to be cute, which was a lousy way to run a team. So he and Sam had to sit on the floor along the wall under the window. The floor was cold under his butt, and the wall behind his back seemed to be actually generating ice that was soaking into his muscles and making them cramp up. They watched the people in the room, not saying much, and Dean knew he was bored and tired and when was he going to get up enough gumption to say it was time to walk out of there. Just a little while longer, when he and Sam were all the way off their meds.

By the time the chime rang to announce bedtime, Dean was shivering as he stood up, feeling the cold down to his bones, feeling a little numb as he walked down the hall behind Sam. Maybe some sleep would help, and Sam would be there to keep him warm. The thought of it gave him far more comfort than it should. He knew that.

The orderly gave them their pills and let them in their room, and Sam took the pills from Dean's hand and flushed everything down the toilet.

As he came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants, he looked at Dean. "You okay?"

"Just cold," said Dean.

"Here," said Sam. He pulled Dean into the bathroom, and turned to fiddle with the plug and the taps. "Your pants are still wet, and your socks, they never did the sock ritual today, did they. Take 'em off."

"Bossy," said Dean, standing there. This probably wasn't a good idea, because although he liked the other bath that Sam had given him, he'd liked it too much. Sam's hands had been all over him, and in the hot, or at least warm, water, it would be too easy to let him put his hands _anywhere_. Everywhere.

Water ran in the tub, and there was even some steam coming off it, Dean could see. The dampness grew, but it was warm, and Dean shivered in his wet clothes, and thought it might not be such a bad idea. He didn't want to catch cold.

"C'mon, Dean," said Sam as he stood up and turned. He plucked at Dean's shirt with his fingers. "You're soaked. C'mon, it'll be nice. You know it will. Let me do this for you."

Those were the magic words, and he couldn't resist them. He took off his shoes and socks and stood there with his bare toes curling and uncurling on the icy tile floor. Sam let the water fill the tub and curled his fingers into the hem of Dean's shirt, tugging it up and over Dean's head. Dean let him, raised his arms high to help, but he let Sam do this. Then, as Sam pulled down his cotton pants and boxers, he had second thoughts, but Sam, fast and businesslike, and had Dean in the almost hot water, soaking before he could start to feel really uncomfortable about the whole role reversal, big brother, little brother thing. Besides, it wasn't anything they'd not done before, anyhow. Right?

Dean let himself relax against the back of the tub, even though the water only came up to just past his belly button. The feeling of not wanting danced around with the wanting in his gut, the flurry of anticipation and what might follow the simple ritual of bathing. Sam knelt by the tub, hands hanging over the edge, holding the washcloth in one, and the soap in the other.

"Will you relax?" asked Sam. "I'm not going to bite you."

Dean opened his mouth to make a joke about that, but decided against it, and turned his head away a little. The damp was curling Sam's hair against his forehead, making his eyes bright, and Dean knew that the evening could quickly go where it ought not to go. As he heard Sam dip the washcloth in the water, and lather up the soap, he realized it might already be too late for that.

Sam's wet fingers curled around the back of Dean's neck, then he brought the washcloth up and began to wash, moving it across Dean's skin, under his ear, turning Dean's head towards Sam. And so softly that Dean shivered. He caught Sam's gaze, watching him, and blinked, letting his shoulders relax. They'd already done this, they'd already done so many things, this was nothing more than more of the same. And Sam liked it, it made him strong, taking care of Dean like this. He'd told himself the same thing so many times, sometimes it felt right, and sometimes it felt like a thin excuse. Like it did now, because Dean knew he liked it, but no matter what he thought he should say, he wasn't going to stop Sam. Not now.

Sam soaped up the washcloth and washed Dean's chest, and his shoulders and his arms. Then his hair, letting the water soak from the cloth to make it soapy, using his fingers to get to Dean's scalp. Then he bent Dean forward, almost into the water, cupping his hands to rinse the soap out. As he pulled Dean upright, he leaned in to kiss Dean right on the mouth, tasting of soap and damp air, his tongue flicking in so fast, it made Dean gasp and jerk back. But Sam ignored this and went at it again, washing Dean's legs beneath the surface of the water, his toes, his calves, moving up to the top of Dean's thighs, and it was almost too much. Dean was hard now, his cock much warmer than the water around it, and in a second, Sam would find out. Like that hadn't been his goal from the get go.

"Can we--" Dean realized his voice was rising to a squeak. "Can we not do this in the tub?"

Sam smiled, flushed, blinking at Dean, his eyelashes flickering with moisture, and Dean's heart lurched in his chest. This was definitely not how it was supposed to go, even though it was, he knew that it was. He just needed it to be a whole lot darker, with the lights out, and for Sam to not be looking at him like that, tipping his head down, mouth curved, wanting another kiss. Dean wanting to give it to him.

"Okay," said Sam. "Out." He stood up as he pulled the plug, and grabbed for the towel, ready when Dean stepped out to rub him dry, briskly all over. Then he handed Dean his p.j.'s, smirking again, as if he knew that he'd soon have Dean out of them. Like he had the night before, and it curled in Dean's stomach, remembering that feeling, Sam's hands struggling past Dean's clothes. And when he'd pulled his pants down, he'd tried not to think of Randy, who'd wanted that very thing, pulling his pants down for Sam. Bare to the thigh, for Sam.

Dean put his p.j.'s on, warmer now, and dry, and watched Sam hurriedly brush his teeth. He brushed his teeth when Sam was done and then the lights out chime sounded. Sam tugged on Dean as Dean spit into the sink, and Dean's stomach tightened, good and hard, and then the lights went out and it was just him and Sam, in the dark. Getting into bed, their arms touching, Sam's hands reaching for him, pressing him back into the pillow, warm hands sweeping down his legs, moving up to reach under his pajama top, tracing his ribs, pushing Dean's skin, almost rough. And then, pulling his hands away to move on top of Dean, cupping Dean's face in the dark, his lips close, and kissing. Softly, as though Dean was the one who was in need of care.

"I'll warm you up," said Sam, whispering, his breath on Dean's cheek.

Dean closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said.

He liked the way Sam's thighs were solid on his, heavy, holding him down, keeping him to gravity, and if they could stay like this, then Dean would be happy forever. Sam's hips were a little bony, but he shifted them to straddle Dean's leg, curving his arm around Dean's shoulders to hold him there. He reached down between their bodies, his fingers moving beneath the elastic waistbands of Dean's p.j.'s and boxers. Pushing them down, like he had before, his fingers tangling in the hairs at the top of Dean's thighs, making Dean's stomach curl, sending shivers radiating out, thinking of Sam's hand, Sam's wide, strong hand, on him. Cupping him. Like it did now, was doing now, Sam's fingers between his legs, stroking the bottom of his balls and then up, in a swoop, making Dean shiver, the skin along the inside of his thighs tighten. Good, that was good. Like _that_.

"Like this?" asked Sam, his voice a feather in Dean's ear. He stroked again, curving his fingers, lightly, around Dean's cock, and pulling up. Swooping down again, doing it again, building it warm, sudden and warm, tingling all along, a dim, buzzing sensation coming closer. There was sweat on the back of his neck. Then Sam drew his hand away for a second, and before Dean could wonder why, the hand was back. Wet, slick, cupping Dean's cock, and stroking. Hard.

Dean reached up to clasp Sam's arms in the dark, just for something to hold on to. He tipped his head back on the pillow, his eyes seeing only black and sparks, almost seeing the pattern of his stomach quivering. And the approaching buzz as Sam shoved hard, and pulled down Dean's pants, his boxers and p.j. bottoms, all at once, almost them hard enough to rip. Dean felt the chill of the air across his thighs, felt his balls tighten against the coolness, and when Sam took his arm away from Dean's shoulders, Dean felt like he was falling, into the dark, flailing, and where had Sam gone?

Then Sam was a warm weight, bending close, shivering over Dean's thighs, one hand on Dean's bare hips and before Dean could breathe or protest or grab at Sam to stop him, he felt it. Sam's hand pulling his cock up, and Sam's mouth, wide and generous and hot, circling his cock. Coming down, wet, Sam's tongue, tasting him, soft on the thin skin of his shaft. Sam knew what he tasted like, and this wasn't--this wasn't--but then Sam swirled his tongue around, pushing into his slit and then swirling around and around and around, and Dean felt his eyes tip back in his head, and his throat arched, and the faraway buzz danced all the way through him. Sam sucked at the crown and pumped at Dean's cock with his hand, warm, hard, just right hard, and Dean couldn't stop him. Not with the low, low denseness growing in his thighs, a weight pressing down on his chest, with him aching for Sam to keep going, keep doing _that_ \--

Sam did that. Pulled his hand faster along the base of Dean's cock, pumping, everything slick. And sucking with his mouth, sucking and tasting, his tongue pressing, rubbing that one spot, over and over, until Dean felt the pressure build in his thighs and the sweat started soaking his spine like a sugar rush. He tried to lift his hands to push Sam off before he could come, he didn't want Sam to have to do _that_ \--

But Sam kept sucking and Dean couldn't stop the pumping of his cock that echoed the pounding of his heart, thighs pushing, hips coming up into Sam's mouth, cock pulsing as Sam swallowed. Dean could hear Sam's throat working as he swallowed, licked and swallowed, never letting go of Dean's cock with his mouth. Dean's head was spinning as the pleasure faded away into sparks, down his legs, around his heart, and he knew they'd gone too far. Sam didn't know that, but Dean did.

He reached to pull Sam's hands off him, Sam's mouth off him, and Sam took that as a signal to stretch his body alongside Dean's. To cup Dean's face to his in the darkness, and to kiss Dean, full on the mouth, his tongue licking in like it had before, licking nerves that felt swollen and alive. The taste of Dean's come on Sam's mouth entered Dean like a shockwave, and the realization of what he'd just let happen slammed into him, making him cold and shivering all over again.

He pushed up against Sam's shoulders, turning his head, jerking his mouth away.

"Stop, okay, stop. Please, Sam," but it wasn't enough. Sam started kissing the line of his jaw, licking along the curve, behind Dean's ear, and Dean leaned into it, feeling his eyes close and his stomach start to clench all over again.

Sam stopped.

"You okay?" Sam asked. His voice was tight. "Dean?"

Sam was worried now. He'd worried Sam, and all of Dean's efforts could be undone in a second. But Dean needed that second, to catch his breath, to try and catalog this away, the feel of Sam sucking on his cock, even as the pinpricks of pleasure were taking their sweet time fading. He shouldn't have let it happen. But he had.

He tried to make his breathing even as he circled his arm around Sam's neck and pulled him close. Like they'd done before, a million times before. He needed them to be where it was safe, him looking out for Sam, caring for Sam. Sam relaxed into Dean's arms, curving his arm over Dean's stomach as he tucked his body into Dean. Which was better, except that now Sam was tugging on Dean's clothes, pulling his boxers and p.j. bottoms up, his hands generous and wide and warm and taking their own time with the task. Pausing to pet the top of Dean's thighs, to wipe away the dampness there before it could get sticky and dry. Then he brought his hand up, and Dean realized that Sam was sucking on his fingers, tasting Dean again. He could feel Sam's eyelashes flicking against his jaw as though Sam were looking up at him.

He reached down to finish pulling his own boxers and pajama bottoms up, feeling a little strange, like his stomach wanted to throw up. Only his body didn't want to move. No, his body liked it like this, with Sam warm and close. So he turned his head away to where he couldn't feel Sam's eyelashes, or the warmth of his breath. Sam's hand rested on Dean's stomach, a warm band in the dark. Dean waited for the pounding in his chest to settle.

"Gotta sleep now," he said, a little more gruff than he meant. So he bent to kiss the top of Sam's head, hair and dampness and salt, cupping Sam's head to him with the curve of his palm. "You wear me out, Sammy."

"Good," said Sam. "Now you're warm, and I'm warm. Now we'll sleep good."

Dean nodded, biting his lower lip. He'd probably sleep better than he ever had since coming to the hospital. His whole body felt boiled through, his head weighed nothing, and sleep was coming at a fast pace. It wasn't right that this felt so good. It wasn't right at all. But his body didn't care, and he fell asleep just as he felt Sam's head turn to plant a light kiss alongside his neck.

*

Dean awoke feeling good. He shouldn't feel this good. Too good really, considering. It was one thing to give Sam what he wanted, maybe even needed, what Dean needed to give him to tie Sam to him so that when he left, Sam would follow without question. It was another thing to enjoy it, or to be on the receiving end of a blow job. Which was now intensified with the knowledge of the way Sam's tongue felt on his cock, or how he'd tasted himself on Sam's mouth. The feel of Sam's hands on his skin. When they were out of the institution, he would put it all behind him, make Sam put it behind him. Wondered how he could, remembering the sweet pull of Sam's mouth on his, how he--

Beside him in the bed, Sam was curled up, the sheets and covers all pulled over to his side, up to his chin, where he lay warm as a cat. Practically purring, relaxed.

"Up, Sam," said Dean. He could hear the cart in the hall with the morning razors, the orderly making his rounds. "Up now."

"Kiss," said Sam. He opened his eyes to look up at Dean, his smoky gaze steady.

"You're such a girl," said Dean, not thinking.

Sam's forehead wrinkled like he didn't know whether or not to be hurt by this. "I am not a girl," he said. "You want me to show you?"

"Um," said Dean. His body wanted it very much, stomach gathering up, cock coming to early morning attention just as nice as you please. "We gotta--" What he didn't want was someone walking in on them. He could hear the lock in the door. "C'mon, now."

Easy to please, easy to tease, that was something about Sam that hadn't changed, even without his memory.

"Later?" asked Sam, half sitting up.

He gave Sam a shove. "Move."

They got their razors, got ready for breakfast, and got through the morning pill ritual without the pill lady being the wiser, and suffered through the soggy, undercooked breakfast by focusing on the oatmeal and milk. Sam had extra in his bowl that morning, and before he was finished, he pushed the bowl over to Dean so he could finish it. Dean dug in, nodding his thanks, no one made it the way Sam did. He could become addicted to the stuff.

The day brought the usual work in the laundry, a lunch that was a pale imitation of the real thing, more pills to be spat out or covered. Work outside in the yard where the breeze made it far too hard to face into the wind, the bite of rain not far behind that, so it wasn't long before Greer called a halt, and waved everyone to get inside as the clouds boiled overhead.

Which was fine with Dean. He'd found himself staring at Sam, at the way the wind mashed his hair around, flickering around his face, Sam brushing it away with the fingers of one hand while he'd tried to pick up trash with the other. Dean didn't want to be staring, and having odd, stray thoughts about Sam's hair. Sam's hair in his mouth as he tucked his head under Dean's chin. Sam's hair brushing the inside of his thighs as he-- No. Not going there. It was for Sam this thing he was doing. For Sam, and not for himself. As long as he kept it one way, him doing and Sam taking, then that would make it okay. For now.

Inside of the hall, the sock ritual began and Dean thought about how easy it would have been for the place to have supplied rubber boots or something instead of going through all this, the yelling and scuffling in a narrow hallway. But then, maybe someone like Bellows would start chewing on a boot or Randy Pointy Fingers would complain that someone had taken _his_ boots, and he needed them back right _now_. Tantrums would ensue. Maybe the sock ritual was the way to go after all.

They lined up. Dean figured they were going to the Day room at this point, and thought about how he could make it to the puzzle table before the three guys in robes did. And then wondered how it had come to this, where his biggest concern was the puzzle table and how to avoid talking to some guy with the emotional maturity of a twelve year old boy. And how to stop remembering the sensation of his brother's mouth sucking on his cock.

As they began walking down the hall, he felt a hand pull on him, and it was Sam, tugging at him to go into a little side hallway that led to some storage rooms. Before he could ask what the hell was up, Sam pressed him against the wall.

"I know never without your permission, but I figure I have it, so--" And then Sam kissed him. Full on the mouth, with the chance of just about anyone coming by or missing them or calling for an orderly. It added a rush to Sam's mouth, wide and sweet on his, and his skin smelled like fresh rain-blown air, his hair falling forward, bringing more scent, Sam's hands on his shoulders, pulling him in. It made him hot, pulling his spine forward through his gut so fast, he thought he was on fire. Kissing back, tasting Sam, wondering how a kiss could be so wild and sure and out of control all at the same time.

Then Sam stopped. "Let's go," he said, motioning with his head as the last of the line of men passed by in the hallway. He pulled Dean out, so they were at the end of the line as it snaked towards the game room. No one was the wiser and if Dean was out of breath, he figured no one would notice. Or care.

The puzzle seemed rather dull after that.

*

If there was a definition of hell, this was not it. Dean brushed his teeth, and peed, washing his hands with Sam standing by, waiting for his turn at the sink. He supposed that part of the trap might be in his letting things go the way that he had, and making excuses for it., instead of working harder to get them both out of there. He should be far more concerned with making their escape plan, and why wasn't he? A person shouldn't be so happy being locked up in a loony bin, it just wasn't natural.

He'd seen the window that was broken, had glanced at the placards for fire escape routes and figured out which stairwell was closest to storeroom 101. He knew the way out, had some rough ideas for getting his necklace and the keys to the Impala back. Granted none of that mattered if he didn't get his ass in gear. But while part of him was restless, the other part of him, and he was ashamed to think it, liked being locked in here with Sam. Night after night, Sam's warm legs and arms and chest wrapped around Dean as if Dean was the warmth that kept away the chills of night and not the other way around.

Sam came out of the bathroom, hanging half in the doorway as he dried his hands on the towel. He might have glanced at the bathtub, but Dean ignored that. Baths definitely led to other things, and Dean was trying to resist the temptation. Sam, of course, was oblivious to the dark workings in Dean's mind and Dean wanted it kept that way. The only way out of this when the end came, and it would, was to be very clear about why he was doing any of it. At least in his own mind.

Sam came up to him, hands on Dean's arms, pushing Dean backwards. And Dean, although a little off balance, let it happen. It was, after all, nothing they'd not done before, Sam kissing him, Dean responding, _responding_ to what Sam wanted. His knees bent as they hit the bed, and Sam toppled half on top of him.

"Dean," said Sam, kissing the soft skin below Dean's ear. Dean tried to move away a little bit, tried to give Sam the signal to stop, but it wasn't working. Sam was kissing the hollow of his throat now, warm mouth following the path of Dean's windpipe, sucking, the pressure of his tongue moving Dean's neck backwards into the mattress, sending tingles into Dean's spine. He should stop this, he really should.

"Dean," said Sam again, burrowing his forehead into the curve of Dean's neck and shoulder.

"What?"

"I want you to do it to me."

"Do what?"

"You know," said Sam. His arms curved around Dean's back, where his hands were doing interesting things along his spine, pressing into the muscles of Dean's back, digging in in a delightful way that eased the kinks and undid tension Dean hadn't known he was carrying.

"No I don't know," said Dean, half irritated. A little breathless as his hands came up to touch Sam, anywhere. Everywhere.

"That thing we talked about, that Randy wants."

For a second, Dean blinked his eyes, bringing up his hands to push at Sam's shoulders, to push him a way so he could look at Sam's face and see if he saw there reflected what Sam's words said. What he thought they meant.

"I'm not doing that, Sam," Dean said. His voice was firm. "We already talked about this. I'm not."

"But why not?" asked Sam. His fingers were doing that thing again, and he leaned in to press kisses along Dean's throat, along the line where his cotton shirt gave way to bare skin. Punctuated his words with kisses. "Why not?"

"Because." Left unsaid were the words he did want to say, that they were brothers, that he was the older brother and nowhere in his list of duties as said older brother did it describe anything remotely like what Sam was asking for.

"You're so--" began Sam, and then he stopped, stopped kissing, stopped doing that thing with his fingers. He raised his head and looked down at Dean, poised on his elbows. "We've already done everything else," he said. "You've kissed me and I've sucked--"

Dean slapped his hand over Sam's mouth before he could begin, not wanting to hear the litany from that mouth that had so recently been kissing him. The mouth that belonged to his brother, for crying out loud. It was one thing to do it. But to _hear_ about it? From Sam? It was like taking a jump into a very horrible and certain future, where the Sam that cuddled up to him now, wanting things, would turn into a whole different Sam who would one day stand and very clearly state how Dean had trespassed where he ought not to have gone and never mind the reason why.

Leaning back on one elbow, Sam peeled Dean's hand away from his mouth. "I was only going to say, Dean," said Sam, his voice taking on that little lecturing tone it sometimes got. Dean made himself not smile at this, it was far too serious to be encouraging Sam with smiles. "I was only going to say that you've had your hand over my heart, where no one's hand has ever been. I--"

"No, Sam," said Dean. "Look, the thing with Randy is just--"

"But I want to give that to you."

Big-eyed Sam, giving Dean the last of the ice cream the time Dean had fallen out of a tree hard enough to be completely out of air, to think he was dying. Dad had lifted him up and told him to walk it off. But Sam, who had been standing close by, thought differently, felt it was worth the sacrifice of the ice cream. Butter pecan, Sam's favorite. Any flavor was Dean's favorite, so he'd eaten the whole thing, ribs aching, the aspirin not quite sinking in fast enough to stave off each wave of pain that breathing brought.

"No," said Dean. He made his voice as firm as he possibly could, but with Sam on top of him like he was, warm and pressing down, it was hard. He was hard. And Sam was hard. His cock branded into Dean's thigh, impossibly warm through the layers of thin cotton. Sam shifted his weight a little, sending his cock spearing upwards against Dean's hip, melting through the cotton, sending spirals of want up from Dean's stomach.

"N-no," he said. "I can't--" Which he realized, as he pushed at Sam's shoulders, trying to shift that weight and that heat, almost made it sound like he _could_ , if the circumstances were different. He braced himself and swallowed the want, and ducked his head so that he could kiss Sam's neck. "Can we just--here." He reached down, it was a bad angle, but he needed to distract Sam, to distract himself--

"Like this." His hand shoved past the waistband of Sam's pajama bottoms and his boxers, and he felt Sam rise back on his knees to give Dean more room. He circled his fingers around the heat and weight of Sam's cock, moved his palm down and tugged. "Like this. You and me."

Now Sam was on all fours above him, using his hand to shove his clothes down, to give Dean more room. Dean stroked Sam's cock, feeling the heat come up through his bones, moisture from the head of Sam's cock slicking up his palm. Sam ducked his head down to plant light, light kisses from a distance on Dean's forehead, his nose, his mouth.

Teasing as he loomed above Dean in the dark, his hands on either side of Dean's head. And powerful, more powerful than Dean, he could do it if he wanted to, and Dean couldn't stop him. Might not stop him, if it came to that, and yeah, there it was, the image of Sam yanking down Dean's pants and just _doing_ it. Because he wanted to, because he was that strong. Sam arched his back and pressed down until his chest was almost brushing Dean's, just about trapping Dean's arm between them, trapping his cock, and Dean's hand wrapped around it, against Dean. Against Dean's cock. And then he pushed. Just once.

Dean came in hard, brain-rocking pulses, and Sam's hands had never even been on him. Making him realize, as he was swept into the dark, that Randy had totally always had Sam's number. And Dean's.

 

**Chapter 17**

It was good to get inside out of the rain, even if Randy kept insisting that Sam was bumping into him _on purpose_. Even if the smell of wet socks and sneakers smelled more like wet dog, wet _old_ dog, than just damp cotton. Even if lunch was lame meatloaf with stewed tomatoes and mashed potatoes that were more chunks of ice than anything else. He tried another mouthful. Yes, definitely chunks of ice. The rolls were soggy as well. Dean's stomach growled. With no meds--well, that was that then. He'd been without pills for a few days. Sam, attempting to scrape the tomatoes off the meatloaf with the edge of his spoon, wasn't faring much better.

"When was your last pill?" he asked.

Sam didn't look up, glowering at a spot of red he couldn't quite budge. "Two days ago."

They were clean. They had to be clean because Dean knew he was getting less able to resist Sam.

"So, okay," Dean said, taking some milk. "I have this idea. I want to get out of here, you wanna come?"

He'd expected Sam to jump up and shout hurray or something, but Sam just wrinkled his brow and picked around the onions in the meatloaf, his mouth frowning as he tried to eat the remains of his picking. "Out of the dining hall?" He looked up at Dean now, and then longingly at Dean's roll, which although soggy, wasn't burned like Sam's was. Dean handed it over to him.

"No, I mean, out of here. This place. Wouldn't you like to be on the open road? We could get the car, and continue on our road trip. What do you say?"

"The car's in an impound lot in Joliet, you said,"

"Yeah, so we'll get it."

"Do you have money?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever, Sam, look, do you want to come?" He lowered his voice as he reached out to touch Sam's arm, making his voice a little sweet. "I _want_ you to."

Now Sam looked at him, all of his attention on Dean, and not on the food, or the noise around them, or anything else. Looking only at Dean with eyes, beneath the sprawl of dark bangs, that were beautiful and bright and full of surprise.

"Come with you?"

"Yeah." Dean's heart was starting to tighten at the thought that Sam might not want to come with him. The idea had not actually occurred to him; he'd not made a Plan B for that. So he added, "Please?"

"Out of here," Sam said. "With you." Dean watched him twist his fingers around the spoon, the skin under his eyes starting to twitch. "Am I better?"

"Well," said Dean, wishing he'd anticipated this. "You still have amnesia, but I think you're better now. And together we'll find someone who knows us, knows you and me."

Still Sam hesitated, as if there was an actual doorway in front of him, and stepping across the threshold was pushing it; here was where everything was known and, even if confining, safe. Out there, with Dean, it was a wild world.

"We'll be together, I promise." He pulled out all the stops because he had to. "You're my Sam, and I'll take care of you. We'll take care of each other."

That made Sam's head dip down, a bashful little slide of his mouth as he tried not to smile. "Okay," he said, to his hands, not really talking to Dean. "We'll go through that window, right?"

"You bet," said Dean. Having got that part over, he felt a little better, and thought about taking a bite of meatloaf. "I just need some heavy duty paper clips and we are all set." Give him a paper clip and he could get out of anywhere, just anywhere.

*

After lunch, the rain let up. The orderlies had a discussion over the lists and the clipboards, and Sam and Dean were taken with the group outside to work on the rock wall. Greer and another orderly handed out shovels for some of the men to start laying a line of drainage gravel alongside the edge of the plastic fence. It seemed strange to give a bunch of loonies something as heavy and potentially dangerous as a shovel, but then he looked around and realized that guys like Randy and Bellows didn't have shovels. They were only picking up rocks and trash. Dean made sure him and Sam got a shovel; shoveling would make a nice change from the constant bend and throw of picking up trash or stray rocks. Besides, it would allow them to be a little apart from the group, and he needed to tell Sam something. No time like now.

They shoveled a load of gravel into the wheelbarrow and Sam wanted to push it, so Dean let him, and carried both of the shovels. They got to the furthest line of the fence where the line of gravel stopped and the fence canted south. The sun kept trying with feeble thrusts to come through the clouds, but the fence cut the wind, so even though it was chilly, it was nicer than being inside, nice to be moving. Nice to be out here with Sam, plus the semi-privacy made the perfect opportunity to tell Sam what he had to tell him. Hopefully Sam would understand.

"Hey, Sam," said Dean.

"Yeah?" Sam didn't look up from his shoveling, just tossed his hair back from his eyes with a flick and gauged where the gravel should go with his eyes. Frowning.

"So, when we're out of here, we're going to have to stop." Dean kept his voice even and firm, so Sam would know he meant business.

"Stop what?"

Taking a breath, Dean chewed on the inside of his mouth for a minute. "Stop what we're doing, you know?"

"Stop--" Sam stopped. He leaned on his shovel and looked at Dean. "Stop shoveling gravel? But we just started."

"No, I mean--" Now Dean stopped too, his posture echoing Sam's. "No, I mean stop, you know, at night. We can't do _that_ anymore."

It took Sam a moment to figure it out, but he did, his eyebrows flew up. Dean was glad he didn't have to speak the actual words aloud, it would have made it so much worse.

"Don't they allow that, out there?"

"Um, no, it's not that, it's just that, out there, we like girls. Most men like girls."

"Maybe," said Sam. He was staring at Dean hard now. "I remember some girls. Not their names, but their faces. I liked them. I liked them a lot. But I like _you_ now. In fact I--"

"Shut up, Sam." It had gone too far, it really had. Dean knew exactly what Sam was going to say, what he was prepared to say, and it was the last thing Dean wanted to hear. Sam was one of those romantics, all soft and gullible, taking kisses for promises, and touches as tokens. It was just like him to imagine that everything he and Dean had been doing meant that--anger sparked hot in his gut. "When we leave, we're done, okay? No more."

"But, Dean--" Sam spread his hands, still holding the shovel. His mouth was open, soft, his eyes were wide and glittering with hurt. The wind tossed his hair in his eyes, and he wiped it away, blinking fast. "I _like_ doing that with you, I like being like that with you. And I know you do too, so why should we stop?"

Dean felt the fury come up like someone had slapped him in the face. It was just like Sam to want what he wanted, and he had always gotten his way; he was spoiled, expecting that Dean would give it to him, just because he wanted it. He stepped forward, jaw coming out, hands fists. He was shaking, and down deep inside he knew that none of this was Sam's fault, not really. But he shoved that thought down hard, because if it wasn't Sam's fault, and if Sam was _right_ \--

He knew, right then and there, that he'd been living in a grey dream world, touching Sam and being with Sam and convincing himself that it was okay because it was _for_ Sam. The djinn had started it by messing with their heads, but Dean knew he had only himself to blame for the mess he'd created. He had to stop it.

"But I _don't_ like it, okay? You just don't get it, do you." He leaned his shovel against the wheelbarrow and moved closed to give Sam a little push, his fingers poking into Sam's shoulders, and he watched as Sam's whole face went white. Sam's shoulders rolled forward, and Sam was looking at him as if he, Dean, were dangerous and unpredictable.

"You keep asking and you won't take no for an answer--" Dean gave another shove, this time with the heel of his palms, making Sam stumble backwards.

Sam's face was tense with lines of panic, pupils huge, the sweat bright along his forehead as his mouth worked to get the words out. "But you said--you _said_ \--"

_You said okay. Never without your permission and you said okay._

That's what Sam was thinking, Dean could see it as clearly as if had been written on Sam's face, on his body, now shaking as Sam's hands gripped the handle of his shovel. He swallowed and took a breath, and tried to stand up straight and look Dean in the eye, but he was casting glances around, just like he expected someone or something to jump out of the shadows at him. Dean knew it would take only one more push to send Sam tumbling over the edge. But Sam had to understand that Dean did _not_ want it. Dean had never wanted any of it, it had all been for Sam. Always. Right? _Right?_

"I don't want to leave," said Sam. His eyes had tears in them, sparkling and unshed. "Maybe I want to stay here with you, if leaving means--"

"I'm leaving, you're coming with me, that's it. Discussion over. You got that?"

Sam looked like Dean had smashed him in the face. Hard.

"No," said Sam. " _No_. Please, Dean, no."

"You come with me or I'll leave you here. Then you can find somebody else to--"

Sam's face went white, the color of iced paper, and as he opened his mouth, the tears streaked like hot mercury down his face. Dean watched as Sam's whole body tightened up, and weeks of gentle, low discussions and sweet touches and nights spent breathing slow, crumbled away.

Dean'd just fucked it all up beyond repair, he knew, seeing Sam's expression, like someone had torn out his heart, but it was for the best. If not now, when? Later? On the road? That would be playing into Sam's fantasies that this thing, this thing between them could last. Would last. When it absolutely shouldn't. It needed to stop before they left here, so that Dean could leave it behind him. Leave it at the hospital. Leave everything he'd done to Sam in here. Everything he'd let Sam do to him. Done. In the dust. If there'd been a gas pedal beneath his foot, he would have stepped on it. Instead he stood there and glared at Sam; he had to make the words stick, even though he wanted to take them back, because he'd just threatened Sam with his very worst fear, the one thing that Dean promised he'd never do: that Dean would leave him.

Sam lurched forward, stumbling on the wet grass, reaching for Dean. He still had the shovel in his hand, and as he slipped, it whapped Dean in the head, making him see stars, sending a heated sting into his skull. But Sam he didn't seem to realize this, and grabbed at Dean's jacket, his arms flailing, whapping him in the jaw, still holding the shovel.

A second later, Dean realized that Sam wasn't flailing, he was _hitting_ , on purpose. That Sam was mad enough to freak out and start hurting, not having any other better way to deal. Dean raised his arms to protect his head, and felt the shovel handle hit him smack in his rib. Saw Sam's teeth bare like he was going to bite, felt the punch to his jaw. He tasted salt in his mouth, and heard the blood roaring in his ears as he held up his arms to break the next blow, aimed at his head, that sent him tumbling to the ground.

He tried kicking out, kicking himself mentally, should have seen it coming, Sam, just coming off meds, reverting in a heartbeat. Faster than that. Lashing out, using the shovel handle like a quarterstaff, expressing the boiling anger the only way that made sense to him. The next blow across Dean's thigh didn't matter; he wanted to scream in frustration. A second later, Greer was there wrestling the shovel away from Sam as someone pulled Dean across the grass, away from Sam, streaking his pants with mud.

"This has gotten out of hand," said Greer. "That boy--" he started, but then he stopped, concentrating on trying to hold on to Sam, Sam who looked like he wanted to do nothing more than murder Dean, teeth bared, growling, foam lining his lips. "Anybody got--?" Greer never finished what he was asking for, another orderly ran out, ran across the grass to Sam, using a blow to fell him to his knees. Sam snarled as he tumbled at Dean's feet, dark hair falling across his eyes.

Sam reached for Dean, and Dean struggled to move away as Sam's hands landed on him, brief, hard, fingers digging in to Dean's arm. As they pulled Sam off, Dean curled into a ball on the wet grass, watching them as they cuffed Sam and stabbed him with something to get him calm. Sam's eyes rolled back in his head, but he managed to keep his face pointed to where Dean was, sightless, mouth open. Panting. Mouth turning down as the aggression melted, as if he'd just realized what was happening.

"Don't leave me," Sam said, as they started hauling him off. "Dean, please, please, don't _leave_ me--"

Dean buried his head in his hands, wet grass poking up into his face, and tried not to hear the words that were breaking his heart.

They dragged Sam off, kicking and pleading, calling for _Dean, Dean, Dean_ , but all Dean could do was lay there in the grass, panting, feeling the drops from the sky across the back of his neck, not questioning why everything tasted bitter. It was the right thing to do, of course it was, Sam had to know sooner or later. It was all black and white to Dean now, but he sucked big time at the gentle talk, instead he'd made Sam come apart. Dean wanted Sam to give up something that he wanted, that made him feel better. Dean tried to push up with his hands, but something in his ribs screamed at him, and his left thigh gave a big, jagged throb and gave up on him.

Greer was there, pulling him up. "Can you stand. Can you walk? How many fingers can you see?"

"Just the one that says fuck you," said Dean, biting back a wave of nasty white that ran up his neck.

"Knock it off Dean. Edgerton, get him to the Infirmary, I'll get these men inside before it rains. Again."

"I have a splinter," said Randy, coming up, holding his own hand in a death grip, so tightly that all his fingers were white. He looked at Dean like he wanted to cry. "I need to go, too."

"Alright, you--take them both, and I'll get word to Dr. Logan about this mess, okay?"

*

The infirmary was a cold place on the first floor, way behind the main gates that separated the ward from the hospital's public offices. Edgerton did paperwork on a clipboard while Dr. Silvers, according to his name badge, led Dean and Randy to a metal table.

With one look at Randy, the doctor had him wait in a chair by the little table, signed the papers, and waved Edgerton off. He was an older man with white hair and a little hitch in his step, but didn't look at all concerned to be locked alone in a room with two crazy men. Not even one who, when he looked in the first real mirror he'd seen in ages, saw blood everywhere. Dean looked away, at the doctor.

Dr. Silvers motioned Dean to take a seat on the table. Dean heaved himself up, wet clothes sticking to him, hoping his ribs were just bruised not broken. Wondering where the hell Sam was. Hating himself because he was an asshole, and not sure which had been the worst thing he'd done, either leading Sam on or stopping him.

"You let someone get the jump on you, I see," Dr. Silvers said, washing his hands. He put on a pair of thin rubber gloves. "Though you look like a fellow who can handle himself, so I'd say…"

He let his voice trail off as he walked up to Dean, reaching out with steady hands to touch Dean's forehead and tip his head to the side. "I'd say….you didn't fight back, did you. Well, that's the nobler thing to do of course…." His voice trailed off again.

"Just patch me up, okay?" said Dean. "And some aspirin, if you got 'em." Though he probably didn't deserve even that for what he'd done. What he'd spent time planning and weeks doing, and taking only seconds to ruin everything.

"Let me finish," said the doctor, like Dean had interrupted him. He waved his hand over Dean. "Anywhere else but the obvious here?"

"Uh," said Dean.

"Take your shirt off, please."

Dean struggled with his wet shirt, until the doctor gave him a hand, and then he stood there, touching Dean along his side. Dean didn't look down. He didn't want to see the marks of Sam's anger.

"Sam was going to jump on him," said Randy, wiggling. "I could see it."

"He got me with a shovel handle," said Dean, making a report. "Ribs, thigh, head. That's it."

"Your lip is bleeding."

Dean licked them. "The shovel handle got me," he said. Then at the doctor's raised eyebrows, he added. "But not very hard. Can I get some aspirin?"

"Something for that. Ice." The doctor made a note on his clipboard and then looked at Randy. "You're next, so don't be going anywhere."

Randy wiggled, pleased with the attention, and watched as the doctor stepped into the little alcove. Dean could hear the ice rattling, felt Randy looking at him.

"He was going to do it to you," said Randy, whispering. "He was going to take off your clothes and fuck you right there on the grass--"

Dean turned, snarling, his ribs feeling like they were biting each other. His head pounded. "You shut your fucking cakehole or I will shut it for you."

He didn't want to think that even if Randy got the details wrong, the argument _had_ been about that. Not wanting to admit that yes, Sam had wanted it, and that the idea was now firmly planted in his own head, and, maybe, not all that unwanted. Sam had had his hands all over Dean. Dean'd liked it. Had wanted more. But he couldn't let himself have it again, not ever. It was wrong and he was right to stop it. But not like this, not by tearing Sam down to the bone, stripping him of every strength, all the trust he'd had in Dean, that kept him safe.

 _Oh, Sam_.

Dean kept himself from sinking his head into his hands, wanting to sooth the headache and unproductive thoughts, but not wanting Randy to see him slip.

The doctor came back and handed Dean some pills and a cup of water. Dean slammed the pills back, eager, sucking back the water, crushing the cup in his hand. The doctor took the cup and threw it away. "Here's the ice."

Dean took the plastic bag and put it against the side of his head where the throb was the strongest.

Before Dean could say anything else, the doctor turned to Randy and _tsked_ _tsked_ over an invisible splinter, slathering on antibiotic ointment like Randy's skin would fall off and wither if he didn't. Then he slapped on a big, pink bandage, and gave Randy a hearty pat on the arm.

"Time to go, Randy, see you next week."

Edgerton came in and took Randy away.

"That's a hard beating," said Dr. Silvers. He was pulling off the plastic examination gloves and turned to throw them in the trash. Then he washed his hands as he talked to himself. "Shovel handles are heavy things," he said. "In the wrong, or right hands…."

Dr. Silvers filled out paperwork on his clipboard. Dean looked down. The clipboard had sheets of paper stuck under the clip, and on those pieces of paper were--

Dean stopped and took a breath, quick, between his teeth.

_Paper clips._

"Could I have--" he stopped, then held out the half melted bag of ice. "Could I have some more ice, please?" Even though he'd messed everything up, and would have to sweet talk Sam into leaving with him all over again, the plan was still the plan. And for the plan, he needed paperclips. His heartbeat sped up so fast, he was sure Dr. Silvers would be able to tell.

But Dr. Silvers nodded and as he got up, he laid the clipboard down on the metal stool. Dean grabbed five paperclips while Dr. Silvers in the alcove getting more ice, and he bent down to slip them to his thin socks. Dr. Silvers came back, and Dean scratched his leg as he sat up, reaching with one hand to grab the bag of ice and slap it upside his head. Scowling to hide the thumping of his heart. He and Sam were getting the hell out of there. Even if Sam now hated him.

"You're a little worse for wear," Dr. Silvers said. "I think I'll keep you here for observation."

He grabbed the clipboard and sat back down, flipping through the pages, making sure he'd updated his notes.

Dean waited, chewing on the inside of his mouth. He watched Dr. Silvers looking at the space where the paperclips had been. But Dr. Silvers didn't say anything. Maybe he was too busy mulling the situation over in his mind.

"Come on then, let's get you settled." The doctor stood up and reached for the phone.

Dean only listened with half an ear as the doctor talked to someone about a night nurse. Then the doctor got up and motioned for Dean to follow him as he unlocked a door to a little room with two white beds, and white sheets. The sun was going down and security lights poured through the window, which, naturally, had bars along the window. The homey touch was added to by the lack of curtains. Each bed had a little metal nightstand next to it, with a little lamp and a bible.

"It's not fancy, we send our really bad cases to the main hospital in Peoria," said Dr. Silvers, "but it's good in a pinch. The nurse will be here in a minute to help you change into some dry clothes. You'll want to get some rest, and if you need anything, just ring the buzzer. And Dean?"

"Huh?"

"Your friend is going to be in Treatment all night," said Dr. Silver. "In the morning he'll be better."

Dean wanted nothing more than to tell the doctor to go fuck himself, but then, he'd be in hot water and then how the hell were they supposed to get out?

He could only glare at the doctor as he left, and then at the male nurse who came in and fussed over Dean, and got him pajamas and watched while he brushed his teeth and who was too blind to notice when Dean bent to slip the paperclips from his socks to his underwear, clipping them along the elastic. They were cold, very cold against his skin, but they might be their only way out.

He got in the bed, not responding to the nurse's comment about how he'd be just outside the door if Dean needed anything. He lay his head back on the pillow. He could feel the cool lines of the paperclips against his skin, but he didn't let himself reach down to make sure they were still there. Even if there was no camera in the room, there was still the nurse who might be in at any moment to check on his patient.

Dean stared at the darkness of the ceiling, blinking away the heat in his eyes. He'd hurt Sam, down deep inside, where Sam was most vulnerable, most in need of care. Dean knew that, and still he'd gone in there, ripping and shredding, undoing all his hard work. Undoing all the kisses and hugs and the closeness and the touching, oh, my God, the _touching_. All that touching, which had a purpose, a real purpose, to help them get out, wiped out, just like that. Just by telling Sam _no_ and _I'll leave you_. That was the most damning thing of all.

He turned on his side, feeling the rustle of sheets against his skin, thinking that the pillow was fluffier than the one in their room. The room that neither him or Sam would be sleeping in tonight. Sam who was in Treatment--

_Shit._

Dean sat up, slamming his feet against the cold linoleum floor, letting the warmth of the blankets fall away. The bed was comfortable and soft in comparison to the one in their room, not to mention in comparison to the Treatment table. Where Sam was, all alone and trussed up and pumped full of something to keep him docile and still. Screaming in the dark, feeling betrayed because Dean had been unable to keep it in his pants from the get go, had been unable to be nice and kind and touch Sam without _touching_ him. He wasn't the best brother, he was the worst brother, the worst friend. And he didn't deserve this bed.

He stood up and looked at the floor that gleamed in the light from the window. Acidy claws tore at him in his gut, the thought of Sam, hurt and not understanding why Dean had been so nice and then, suddenly, so mean, because Sam had wanted only to kiss Dean on the mouth, and snuggle close as they both fell asleep. Wanted only to be with Dean, and was now all alone, thinking that Dean had betrayed him, like he'd thought in the beginning, that Dean was only waiting for his moment to turn on Sam. And Dean had proved Sam exactly right.

Dean tore the blanket from the bed and spread it on the floor. He didn't deserve a pillow, no, but if he didn't have the blanket, he'd be too cold to fall asleep. And he needed to fall asleep so he could black out the image of Sam's face, eyes wide with shock, mouth pulled down tight as it tried not to quiver. As Sam tried not to cry. Just before he'd tried to kill Dean. Or, at the very least, tear him up pretty bad. Not that Dean hadn't deserved it. He had, oh, he had. And he deserved worse. But what could be worse than having Sam hate him? Nothing. Not even letting Sam fuck him.

He knelt down on the blanket, thinking that if he knew any prayers, this would be the time for them. But as he lay down on his side, ribs screaming at him, thigh bunching in protest, and cradled his head on his arm, his only prayer was Sam. Sam's sweet face, green eyes blinking in the morning light, wanting a kiss. Was that so bad? A kiss? If only Dean had left it that. If only he'd been able to.

He closed his eyes and thought about how they would escape, him and Sam. About how it would be with the full sky overhead. And how the rain would feel on their bare skins as they walked in the darkness.

~

Continues in next part in the series.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The existence of this story is due to a number of things.
> 
> First, to the Big Bang Challenge, which made me want to write something long and complicated, to raise my own bar, and to work really, really hard at something for no other reason than because it was there.
> 
> Second, because I wanted to write a story that told how Sam and Dean really fell in love. If you go to my LJ you’ll see I’ve asked around, and really the only non-changing answer is that everyone has their own theory and all theories are equally valid. I wouldn’t say that this story represents my only theory, but it was the one I choose to go with.
> 
> Third, because I have an unhealthy obsession with mental institutions.
> 
> Fourth, because of a story I read that Took Over My Brain. It’s called Missing Persons and it's by Dira Sudis. It’s set in the Numb3rs fandom, and tells the story of Charlie getting kidnapped, and of Don finding him to rescue him. Only Charlie has amnesia and then sex happens, wonderful angsty and realistic sex that develops from a set of circumstances in such a steady and sustained way, that when it happens, it’s utterly absorbing and real and true. MP is one of those stories I fell in love with and wanted to marry. You know the feeling, you read it, you can’t stop thinking about it, it comes up in all those conversations in your head that you can’t possibly have with people at work, it absorbs your waking hours, and the only time you don’t think about it is when you’re looking for another story just like it. Damn that Dira. She’s ruined me forever.
> 
> ***
> 
> Hey there, thanks for reading my fan fiction! Because I love writing so much, I've turned my attention to writing m/m historical romances. My goal is to make a living by my writing, so if you'd like to give my books a try, you can [ click the link to visit my website](http://www.christinaepilz.com/) and find out more.


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